


Venn Diagram

by pandarave12



Series: Days [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha Mycroft, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Arranged Marriage, Kidfic, M/M, Omega Greg, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Teen AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:35:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 87,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandarave12/pseuds/pandarave12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Opposites attract, they say. They bloody well should. Greg's not going to spend the rest of his life with someone who can't even appreciate a bit of The Clash.</p>
<p>(Also, the mystrade-centric companion of Tomorrow Never Knows)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My

**Author's Note:**

> You have to read the first part. Again, English is not my native language so I apologize for the mistakes.

Greg Lestrade is six-years-old when his mother has her third miscarriage, the first one after Greg was born. He was playing tag with his friends when Mrs Wendell called him in the classroom. She doesn’t tell him then, but she does treat him differently, occasionally asking him if he’s alright and if he wants a sweet. By the time his Aunt Louise arrives, Greg has already eaten three chocolate biscuits and is beginning to suffer from a sore throat.

 

Aunt Louise doesn’t tell him at first, but when the hospital finally looms over them, she says that there was a problem with the baby. “You won’t have a baby sister anymore,” she says in a strange voice. Greg frowns when he realises that she looks like she’s about to cry. It scares him a little so he looks away and focuses instead on the solemn grey building before them. “But Mummy is okay.”

 

“Can I see her?”

 

“After a bit,” she tells him. She takes a deep breath then smiles at him. Even at six, Greg knows that the smile is completely fake. “Let’s go inside.”

 

Aunt Louise leaves him in the waiting room with a magazine that features strange dogs and a pad of paper and some crayons. She tells him that his father will come by shortly and that she just needs to make sure that his mother is awake and ready to see him. A nurse joins him shortly to make sure he’s doing alright. “That’s nice,” she says absent-mindedly when he shows her his squiggly drawing of a police car.

 

Greg doesn’t like the waiting room, nor does he like hospitals in general. The seats are comfortable but the air smells far too clean, as if someone has painted the walls with layers of disinfectant. There’s a telly but it only shows the news, which is boring. In the waiting room with him are a bunch of grown-ups. They’re either talking on the phone or talking to each other. A sulking teenager sits as far away as possible from his mother. One of the adults, a woman wearing a bright yellow dress, smiles at him and asks him who he’s waiting for. Greg says nothing and goes back to drawing.

 

Halfway through a drawing of a Dalmatian, a shadow falls over him. “Hello there. Dogs aren’t purple,” someone says in an accusing tone. Greg looks up.

 

The boy looking down at him is familiar, though Greg has never spoken a word to him. They go to the same school, his mind supplies when he remembers that he’s seen the boy in the same uniform as him. He’s older than Greg, by a year maybe. “Hi,” Greg says.

 

“Hello,” he says again.

 

Greg sets the sketchpad down. He’s not supposed to talk to strangers but the kid isn’t really a stranger. They’ve met before. Sort of, anyway. Standing in line to get lunch with two people between them is sort of meeting each other in Greg’s opinion.

 

A doctor approaches the woman in yellow. She gets up, follows him, and the boy immediately takes her place. “I’m Mycroft by the way. Mycroft Holmes,” he tells Greg as he sticks out a hand. Greg finds that weird. Only teachers do that to you when they’re meeting you for the first time.

 

“I’m Greg.”

 

“Greg or Gregory?”

 

“ _Greg_.” He hates being called ‘Gregory’. Only his parents call him that, and only when they’re very angry at him. “Greg Lestrade.”

 

Mycroft nods. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Greg Lestrade.” His grip on his hand is firm, practiced. Greg shakes back awkwardly. His hand is sweaty and smeared with wax shavings. Mycroft looks disapproving when he wipes his palm on his trousers.

 

“Your name’s really Mycro?” Greg asks once his hand is dry.

 

“Mycroft.”

 

“Mycroff?”

 

“Mycrof- _t_.”

 

Greg tries again but Mycroft just shakes his head and repeats his name. Greg gives up after the fifth time. He’s not very good with pronouncing words that end with an ‘f’ and a ‘t’. His father says he’s a little slow in picking up things like that, but he’ll learn, eventually. At least he doesn’t have a lisp like Kendra Pelletier. “Myc?” he asks.

 

Mycroft seems to think about that for a while. “My,” he finally says. “I don’t like the name ‘Mike’ very much. It’s rather common.”

 

“You talk weird,” Greg informs him. Mycroft does talk weird, like he’s much older than Greg, older than his father, even. When Mycroft says nothing, Greg thinks that he may have offended him. He looks at Mycroft, then, and fishes for a compliment. “I like your hair,” he finally says.

 

Mycroft’s hair is quite interesting. It’s neatly parted to the right and is such a vibrant shade of red that it makes him look like a human tomato in his large orange jacket. Greg’s own hair is dark and unruly, a fact that has never escaped his mother’s notice. He thinks about her right now, a little bit glad that she’s not here to flatten his hair with a comb.

 

Mycroft says ‘thank you’ again. “I like your smell, too,” Greg adds because it really is quite nice to hear Mycroft say ‘thank you’. And he does smell nice. Greg can’t describe it exactly, but it’s certainly not like the sweet scent his mother has.

 

Mycroft doesn’t thank him this time, though. Instead he looks annoyed, like Greg has just done something wrong. Greg then remembers his mother telling him it’s impolite to go announcing people’s natural scents like that. Betas hate it, but Mycroft’s an Alpha. It’s obvious from his appearance, even more from his scent. He should be flattered, right?

 

“My mum lost my sister,” Greg tells him instead, feeling a bit angry with Mycroft and himself because of his mistake. “My Aunt Louise said she had an accident and the baby just went away.”

 

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

 

“How about you?” Greg wonders who Mycroft has lost, or if he’s lost anyone at all. He doesn’t look sad. But then, Greg thinks he doesn’t look sad, either. He wasn’t really too keen on the idea of having someone to share his parents’ attention.

 

Smiling slightly, Mycroft sits up, as though he’s trying to look important, then says, “My baby brother was born a few hours ago,” he says quite proudly. Greg knows for a fact that he didn’t have anything to do with it, but he keeps quiet because it’s the polite thing to do. “He was born too early, though, so he’s in an incubator right now.”

 

Greg frowns at the word ‘incubator’. “Your brother’s a chicken?” he asks, remembering that time his uncle brought him to the petting zoo. A man in a farmer’s hat had shown him where they placed the eggs. He wonders if the reason why his mother’s belly is so big is because there’s a huge egg in there. And it cracked and his little sister got out somehow.

 

Panicking, he thinks of how he accidentally dropped one of the eggs the farmer had handed to him. The man had laughingly told him he’d killed a living creature then threatened to call the police, much to Mr Joyce’s annoyance. The yolk had seeped through his laces while he stood there, shaking uncontrollably. He trembles now as he thinks over and over again that maybe _he_ killed his sister.

 

Mycroft looks at him, confused, but before he can say anything, a tall man with Mycroft’s colouring approaches them. “Come now,” the man says to Mycroft in a bored voice.

 

“Goodbye,” Mycroft says, as proper as ever. He shakes Greg’s hand one more time before he follows his father to the elevator. As soon as the doors close, Greg begins to cry. The mopey teenager who’s sitting next to his mother looks at him strangely, but says nothing. Sitting the bench across his, a woman cries as well, though it’s nothing like Greg’s. Her wails are loud and frightening enough to make Greg stop.

 

“What’s the matter with you?” his father asks when he emerges from the elevator where Mycroft and his father disappeared. He picks him up even though he’s already far too big for that. “Are you upset because of your mum?”

 

Greg nods then buries his face in the space between his neck and shoulder His scent is bland, quite unlike his mother’s. “I think I broke Mum’s egg,” he says, his voice muffled, before he begins to cry again.

 

* * *

 

 

His mother is due to stay in the hospital for two weeks. Greg misses her terribly. He’s not allowed to see her every day because of school. His Aunt Louise has decided to stay with him until his mother is better again as his father has to work and no one will be there to look after him. Greg doesn’t like Aunt Louise very much. She’s a Beta like his father so she doesn’t have his mother’s nice smell. She does the wrong things as well, like giving him eggs for breakfast even though she has been told countless of times that Greg’s allergic to them. Also, looking at eggs just makes him feel ill. His father had sat him down when they returned from the hospital and explained to him that no, he had no part in the death of his sister, and that it had already happened before to his mother. He failed to convince Greg, however. Just the mere sight of an egg has Greg thinking of dead babies.

 

The morning after his first visit, they threw all her things away. Pink was the only thing that came to Greg’s mind when his father loaded the baby furniture in the back of the car. His father sold what he could, then tossed away what he couldn’t. It wasn’t a very fun trip. His father drove too fast and spoke too little.  “We were going to call her Angela,” he told Greg over the screeching of the tires, over the mockingly happy music the radio played. “After your grandmother.”

 

There are two dead Angela Lestrades, one who lived past seventy, another who didn’t live at all. And before Angela, before Greg, there was Mitchell and Joseph. Greg thinks about the brothers and sister he will never have. It makes him feel awfully lonely.

 

Visits to the hospital make him happy. He still doesn’t like the waiting room, but at least he doesn’t have to stay there very long anymore. His mother is better now, though she does look a little grey and has tubes sticking out of her arm. Her smell has reverted to the less sweeter one that she had before she became pregnant. Her belly, still large, is empty beneath her hospital gown. Greg refuses to touch it.

 

He meets Mycroft again the third time he visits his mother. They’re in the hospital’s cafeteria, one table apart from each other. Mycroft looks bored. He’s sitting next to his father who’s talking to someone on his phone in an angry voice. Greg waves at Mycroft.

 

“Who’s that, Greg?” his father asks as he looks up from the magazine he’s reading. He does a double-take when he sees the man Mycroft’s with, then grins and stands up as soon as the other man’s put his phone away. Greg leaves his food unfinished then follows his father to Mycroft’s table.

 

Mycroft’s wearing a blue coat today. Greg likes it better than the orange one. It doesn’t make his hair too hard to look at. “Our parents know each other,” he says as they watch his father and Mycroft’s shake hands.

 

“Hello,” Mycroft tells him. “You should really say ‘hello’ when you’re meeting someone.”

 

“Oh. Well, hello.”

 

Mycroft nods approvingly. “Your father works for mine,” Mycroft tells him. “Didn’t you know?”

 

Greg shakes his head. The only thing he knows about his father’s work is that it brings in a lot of money and has something to do with credit cards. He sneaks a glance at Mr Holmes. He doesn’t really look like Mycroft, he realises. He’s scarier-looking and has very strange eyes. He looks away when they land on Greg’s face, then looks again when Mr Holmes is no longer staring at him.

 

 “Would you like to see my brother?” Mycroft asks him.

 

“Um, okay.”

 

Their parents are too busy talking. Mycroft assures him that he knows his way around, anyway, and that they’ll be back shortly. He looks back at Greg when they leave the cafeteria. “Would you like me to hold your hand?” he asks.

 

Greg blinks. “Why?”

 

“You’re an Omega,” Mycroft points out. “and I’m your escort.”

 

Greg looks at his hand. His fingernails are too long and dirty and his palm is sweaty and smeared with mayonnaise. Mycroft looks at Greg’s hand as well with a small frown. “No thanks,” Greg says as he shoves both hands in his pockets. Mycroft doesn’t say it but Greg thinks he looks relieved.

 

The elevator is a little complicated but Mycroft shows him how to make it work. He pushes the button that leads to the sixth floor. The ride up is uncomfortable but Greg puts on a brave face and tries to ignore the way it seems to flatten his stomach. The only person with them is the same miserable teenager Greg saw in the waiting room. There’s a thick white bandage wrapped around his wrist. Greg wants to ask him what that’s for but Mycroft silences him with a look.

 

The floor they go to is quite different from the others. The walls here aren’t white, but a soft blue, the same colour as Mycroft’s jacket. There are large windows. Greg looks out at one and sees a large room with a lot of small cots. “Oh,” he says when he sees the newborn infants. He turns to Mycroft. “Where’s your brother, then?”

 

Mycroft leads him farther. Greg follows until they reach an isolated part of the floor. A man in a dark suit walks by then stops to talk to Mycroft. “Here to see your brother again, right?” the man—a doctor, Greg thinks—asks. He talks to Mycroft as if they’ve known each other for a long time. Greg decides the doctor must be a relative. He has the same hair colour as Mycroft’s and the same pale eyes as Mr Holmes.

 

“That’s my uncle. He’s the director,” Mycroft explains. He moves Greg in front of another window, a smaller one this time. Greg has to stand on his toes just to see through it.

 

“My brother Sherlock’s there.”

 

There aren’t beds here but small tanks that remind Greg of their aquarium back home. Only a few are occupied. Mycroft points at the one to the left. Inside, a tiny infant sleeps deeply. He has tubes through his nose, and he’s naked but for a nappy and a small woolly hat. Greg looks at him. Little Sherlock doesn’t look like a healthy baby. He’s far too pale, so much that Greg can see the blue veins mapped beneath his skin. “He doesn’t look very healthy,” he admits to Mycroft. “Is he going to live, then?”

 

Mycroft doesn’t look happy about that. In fact, he doesn’t talk to Greg at all during the elevator ride back. “I’m sorry,” he says once they get back to their fathers. Neither of them seems to have noticed their absence.

 

“I forgive you.” He shakes his hand again when they’re about to leave. Mycroft wrinkles his nose slightly when they shake hands. “Goodbye, Greg.”

 

“See you soon?”

 

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

 

They meet each other several times in the hospital until his mother is released and Sherlock is ready to go home.

 

“You should give him a gift,” Greg tells Mycroft. “Sherlock, I mean. That’s what I did when my cousin was born.”

 

“What did you give her?”

 

Greg frowns. “I bought something in the gift shop. Do you know where that is?”

 

The gift shop is in the ground floor, near the cafeteria. Mycroft and the lady behind the counter watch as Greg rummages through the merchandise. He dismisses the brightly-coloured cards and the balloons that hang overhead. Mycroft shakes his head at each stuffed animal Greg shows him. “Too boring,” he says to the brown bear. “Too frightening,” he says to the clown that Greg has to admit _is_ frightening. “Too mediocre,” he says to the yellow rabbit. Greg makes mental note of asking him later what ‘mediocre’ means. “Sherlock is a boy,” Mycroft says, annoyed, when Greg holds up a Raggedy Anne by mistake.

 

“How about this then?” Greg asks, pulling out a strange hybrid of a bear and a bee. He holds it at arms-length and looks at it for a moment. “This looks weird.”

 

Mycroft takes it from his hands then turns it around. For a long time, he eyes it critically. The lady behind the counter rolls her eyes at them and asks if they even have money to pay for it. “I do, actually,” Mycroft tells her as he puts the bee/bear on the counter. Her eyes widen a little at the money Mycroft hands to her but she bags the toy nonetheless and gives Mycroft his change. He studies her for a moment, then adds, “Good luck with your date tonight, by the way.”

 

Greg doesn’t miss the stunned expression on the woman’s face. “How’d you know?” he asks once they’re outside. “Are you psychic?”

 

Mycroft scowls at him. “Of course not. She has dark shadows under her eyes from lack of sleep and her hair tells me she went to the salon. She keeps looking at the clock as well, then to her phone. Her lipstick is red so it brings attention to her mouth. It’s not a business meeting, then. It’s a first date, I think.”

 

“Cool,” Greg says. He looks at Mycroft admiringly. “Do me, then.”

 

“You want to be a detective when you’re older.”

 

Greg stares at him, open-mouthed. “How’d you know?”

 

Mycroft points at his shirt. It’s Greg’s favourite, the Tintin one, so it’s more than a little faded. “You draw cop cars a lot as well.” Mycroft pauses then says, “Cop cars aren’t red by the way, nor are they purple.”

 

Greg sticks his tongue out at him. Mycroft looks away but Greg thinks that, for a moment, Mycroft actually smiled at him.

 

* * *

 

 

The house is silent when his mother comes home. When his parents talk to each other, they do so in quiet voices. Greg no longer likes it when they talk to him. It’s as if they’re clamouring for his attention. His mother keeps telling him she loves him, while his father brings him a new toy almost every night. Frankly, it’s just suffocating. Greg knows it’s wrong, but he does his best to hide from them, anyway.

 

“That’s not very nice,” Luke, his friend and cousin, tells him one day. They’re in the park, searching for bugs. Luke’s mother was watching them closely a moment ago, but found a friend to talk with and has left Greg the responsibility of making sure Luke doesn’t do anything dumb.

 

It is a difficult job.

 

Greg looks over his shoulder and sees that both women are seated on a bench, talking about their children and complaining about their partners. A part of Greg wishes they’d pay attention to them because Luke is now wading through the shallow part of the pond.

 

“They’re always talking to me. How would you like it if your parents talked to you whenever you’re watching cartoons?” Greg complains as he digs up a rock. Luke watches as he throws it. The pebble skips over the water three times before it disappears.

 

They search for rocks for a moment but none of them are the right one. “I’ll get it back,” Luke assures him. Greg doubts he’ll be able to do it. The pebble sank far away.

 

“I don’t think you should go farther. You might fall,” Greg warns him.

 

Luke snorts. He rolls up his trousers even though the legs are already soaked through. “No, I won’t.” He walks farther, slipping a little as he moves through the muddy bank. Greg looks over his shoulder again. Aunt Isobel and her new friend are laughing hysterically.

 

The water is nearly up to Luke’s knees when Greg looks back. He panics a little. “If you don’t stop, I’m telling Aunt Isobel,” he threatens.

 

Luke narrows his eyes at him. “Do it and I’ll hit you.”

 

Greg thinks about it for a moment. Luke is taller than him, but skinnier. He doesn’t know how to punch either but he has a hard kick. He’s not above biting either. Greg pulls back the sleeve of his jumper and looks at the part where Luke bit him the last time they had a fight. It’s old but Greg can still see the imprint of his teeth quite clearly.

 

“Aunt Isobel!” Greg yells, managing to get the name out before Luke clamps a hand over his mouth and tackles him to the muddy grass. They roll away from the water. Luke’s pulling at his hair but Greg manages to get the upper hand by hitting Luke’s face. By the time Greg’s done, Luke’s sitting on the grass, sobbing.

 

“I hate you!” he cries. There’s mud above his right eyebrow and his jaw is a little red from where Greg’s fist landed. “I never want to see you again!”

 

“We live next to each other, doofus!” Greg yells back.

 

‘Your face is stupid!”

 

Greg pushes him a little. Luke gets up and pushes back, harder. “You’re stupid!” Greg shouts.

 

“Your mum’s ugly,” Luke taunts, no longer crying.

 

Aunt Isobel isn’t ugly and neither is his mother but all reason flies out the window when you’re having a fight. “Yours is as well!” Greg counters.

 

“Your grandparents stink.”

 

Greg pauses for a moment then yells back, “We have the same grandparents, dummy!”

 

They tackle each other half-heartedly. Luke gets the upper hand this time, but doesn’t do anything other than lightly slap Greg’s cheek. He rolls off then lies quite still on the grass. A fly lands on the tip of Luke’s nose but he doesn’t even shoo it away.

 

“I’m hungry,” he says, finally. “I want ice cream.”

 

Luke’s the only one who has money but it’s enough to buy them a cone, each. “Your mum made a new friend,” Greg tells him as they make their way to the vendor. There are already other children there. Luke grabs his hand and makes him walk faster.

 

“That’s nice, I guess.” He hands Greg his ice cream. Cocking his head to one side, he asks, “Do you know what a ‘wanker’ is?”

 

Greg shakes his head. “No. Why?”

 

“My older sister called me that.” Luke frowns then turns to the vendor, an old man with a cartoonish smile. “Hey, mister, do you know what a ‘wanker’ is?”

 

For some reason, the man’s smile disappears and is replaced by a scowl. One of the older kids laughs. Luke turns to her and repeats the question but she merely shakes her head and goes away, laughing all the time. Greg is beginning to get the feeling that that word shouldn’t be said to other people.

 

Luke, however, doesn’t stop. Gran said it’s because Luke has something called ADHD, which makes him really hyper. Gran also said it’s because he’s an Alpha and Alpha kids usually have that. Greg wonders if this is true as Luke is the only young Alpha he’s met who has the attention span of a goldfish.

 

Greg watches as he moves to another kid. “How about you?” Luke asks. “Do you know what a ‘wanker’ is?”

 

“I have several ideas.”

 

Greg’s eyes widen when he realises its Mycroft. He’s wearing a lurid red jacket this time, one that nearly hurts to look at. “Hello, My,” Greg greets happily. It’s the first time he’s ever seen Mycroft outside school and the hospital.

 

To his surprise, Mycroft smiles back at him. “Hello, Greg.” He eyes Luke strangely. “Your cousin?”

 

“Yeah. His name’s Luke. My’s a detective.” Greg says this last to Luke who stares at Mycroft openly.

 

“Of sorts.”

 

Luke blinks at him. “You talk weird,” he says in a tone that dares Mycroft to disagree. Mycroft says nothing, though, which is just as well. Greg thinks that Mycroft’s not the type of kid who enjoys wrestling.

 

“What’s that?” Luke asks. He’s already moved away from Greg and is now staring at the push chair behind Mycroft.

 

“It’s ‘who’, actually.” Mycroft sounds peeved. Greg quickly grabs Luke by the scruff of his neck and makes him move away from it. “My baby brother. Don’t wake him.”

 

With permission, Greg looks at Sherlock. He’s not so sickly looking now but he’s still awfully pale. The weird bee/bear Mycroft bought for him is lying next to him. “Stupid bear,” Luke mumbles in a low voice. Fortunately, Mycroft doesn’t hear it.  

 

“Mummy assigned me to take care of him,” he tells Greg proudly. “She’s there, talking to a friend, but she says I’m old enough to watch out for him—Do. Not. Push. That.”

 

Luke scowls but obediently removes his hands from the handle. Greg glares at him until he backs away from the push chair. “I’m supposed to tell on you if you do something bad,” Greg reminds him.

 

“And I’m supposed to protect you!” Luke argues. He glares at Mycroft this time. “He’s an Alpha. Mum said you’re not supposed to talk to them.”

 

“I’m talking to you!”

 

“We’re family." Luke eyes Mycroft critically. "He’s not.”

 

Mycroft glowers at Luke. Greg wonders if they’ll fight. He's kind of hoping they will. Maybe Mycroft's good at wrestling and just doesn't look it.

 

“I will be, actually,” Mycroft says, his eyes still trained on Luke. “I heard Father talking to Mummy. I’m going to marry Greg.”

 

Greg looks up from his ice cream in confusion. “What?” he asks.

 

Mycroft isn’t able to answer, though. Luke throws his ice cream away then immediately tackles Mycroft to the ground.


	2. Something Old, Something New, and Something Unexpected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END NOTES HAVE SPOILERS ABOUT THE FIRST PART. (just warning you because some of you may have decided to read just this fic).

“I don’t have to kiss him right?” Greg asks, his mouth full of chewed up bits of fried chicken. Next to him, Luke is fighting with his own meal. A few peas bounce from his plate and onto Greg’s. Greg looks away from the grown-ups to glare at Luke who is now piling pea after pea on the edge of Greg’s plate.

 

His mother shakes her head. “Of course not, sweetheart, you’re still too young to do that. Luke, honey, please stop putting your veggies on Greg’s plate.”

 

Luke stops but does it again when Greg’s mother begins to talk to Aunt Isobel. Greg retaliates by grabbing the bottle of hot sauce and squirting a great amount on Luke’s meal. “Get the mustard,” Luke orders him. He doesn’t seem to understand that Greg is avenging his food. Together, they pour condiment after condiment until there’s a huge mess on not only the plate, but the paper placemat beneath it as well.

 

“You’re going to die hungry,” Greg warns him, mid-squeeze. “Unless you eat that.”

 

Luke frowns at the thick brown soup that was, just a few seconds ago, a half-finished meal of fried chicken and rice. “Muuuum,” he whines, banging his fork on the table to get their attention. An accusing finger is suddenly pointed at Greg. “Greg messed with my food.”

 

“I didn’t do it!” Greg yells. A few people turn their heads to look at the noisy family. “It was Luke!”

 

Luke gapes at him. “It was not!” he says loudly. “He tricked me!”  

 

In the end, it is both their fault. Greg’s mother apologises to the manager, who has come out to inspect the noise, while Aunt Isobel drags them outside and scolds them. She slaps the back of their hands for good measure. The slaps aren’t hard but they do the job of leaving both boys ashamed of themselves.

 

“Now you two behave or else we’ll go home right now,” she warns.

 

“Still your fault,” Luke mumbles but he grabs Greg’s hand and tugs him forward.

 

The tailor making Greg and Luke’s suits is an ancient Omega who keeps mistaking Luke for Greg and Greg for Luke. Neither children like her very well, but they forget that as soon as Madame Siccion brings out their suits. “Why’s yours black?” Luke complains when Greg tries his on. It’s a perfect fit and when they make him face the mirror, they coo over him and tell him how handsome he looks. Greg doesn’t really feel handsome. He stares at the little boy in the mirror and thinks that he looks the same, only with nicer clothes.

 

“Yours is nice,” Greg tells Luke who’s also wearing his. It’s brown, though, a colour Greg knows Luke dislikes. Apparently, neon green is not an acceptable colour to wear in a formal event. But colour aside, the suit does look nice. It’s not like Greg’s. Madame Siccion says it’s more like Mycroft’s, though Greg has yet to see what Mycroft’s looks like. Mycroft won’t even tell him what colour it is. He wonders if it will be red or orange, like Mycroft’s coats.

 

“You also get that ring,” Greg adds, pointing at the silver band around the ring finger of Luke’s right hand. “I want one.”

 

“You’re getting a mate and you still want a ring? Greedy,” Luke jeers.

 

“I am not!”

 

“Yes you are.”

 

To make matters worse, he twists the ring around his finger and tells Greg how shiny it looks and how cool it is. Greg glares at him. His mum told him countless of times already that only Luke gets a ring because he’s Greg’s sentinel and only sentinels get the ring. The only thing that stops him from stealing the ring from Luke is the knowledge that Mycroft doesn’t get a ring, either.

 

Luke turns to his mother while still playing with the ring. “What does a sedinel do again, anyway?”

 

Aunt Isobel turns to Greg’s mum. “It’s sentinel, love. You look after Greg until he and Mycroft bond properly,” she tells him.

 

Both children just look at her.

 

“You make sure that he and Mycroft are getting along. It’s more of a position, actually, not exactly a duty, Kind of like being the best man. The ring—it’s a symbol that you’re a witness to their pre-bond. At least, that’s what I think. I’m not too familiar with pre-bonding ceremonies since they’re really just for aristocratic families.”

 

Neither of them say anything. Finally, Aunt Isobel sighs then says to Luke, “You just make sure no Alphas hurt Greg, not even Mycroft.”

 

Luke frowns. “But I’ve been doing that my whole life! Why’s it only now I get this ring?”

 

“It’s because you’re stupid,” Greg says simply. Any other time, Luke would attack him and they’d have a wrestling match, but he’s far too distracted by the ring on his finger. It’s really just a simple silver band which will be replaced every time Luke gets bigger and it’s not even expensive. But it’s shiny. Greg likes shiny things.

 

He doesn’t care if it means he’s greedy. That ring is quite nice.

 

“I like this seminal thing,” Luke announces.

 

“It’s sentinel, sweetheart,” Aunt Isobel corrects.

 

“Sedinel, Seminel. Sentinel,” Luke says each word carefully. “Sentinel. Yeah, that’s right. I like it.”

 

“And why’s that?”

 

Luke smiles sweetly. “It makes it okay to hurt Mycroft.”

 

* * *

 

 

“How about Greek mythology?” Mycroft asks. He takes a seat on the armchair beside Sherlock’s crib then opens the book with a bit of difficulty due to its heavy weight. An illustration of Kronos eating his children appears. Mycroft frowns at the gory image then turns the page until it lands on an illustration of a baby Hermes constructing a lyre. He lifts the book up as much as he can and shows the drawing to Sherlock.

 

“This is you,” he says as he turns the page. The picture changes to the interaction Hermes and Apollo. “And that’s me,” he adds, pointing at the older of the two gods. “They’re brothers, like us.”

 

Sherlock blinks at the picture before focusing his eyes once more on the stuffed animal Mycroft bought for him. He thrusts a small hand through the bars and makes grabbing motions. Mycroft sighs and closes the book once more.

 

“You’re so attached to this,” Mycroft says as he picks the toy from the floor. “You can’t bring this all the time with you when you’re older, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock, of course, doesn’t understand any of it. At four-months-old, all he understands is that Mycroft is family and that the bee/bear must always be within his sight. Mycroft is quite pleased that Sherlock likes it so much. He dangles the toy over the crib and watches as Sherlock giggles and tries to make a grab for it.

 

“That’s unclean, Sherlock,” Mycroft chides when Sherlock latches his mouth onto one of the bear’s ears. He whines when Mycroft tries to pry it off him, his face crumpling in a way that warns Mycroft Sherlock’s about to have a good cry. He lets him have it in in the end. His hand itches and he wants so much to take the bear out of Sherlock’s mouth but he stops himself and settles instead for stroking the soft black curls on Sherlock’s head.

 

“Greg chose that,” Mycroft says. Father once told him not to talk to Sherlock so much since he doesn’t really understand but Mycroft enjoys it.

 

Besides, there’s no one else to talk to.

 

“We’re going to have a pre-bond,” Mycroft continues. Sherlock has stopped chewing on the bear’s ear and is now staring at him. “Then when we’re older we’re going to bond and then marry.”

 

He’s not exactly sure how he feels about the pre-bond, but Father tells him it’s his duty, that it will make him proud if he goes through with it. Mycroft likes making Father proud of him, and frankly, Greg is nice, although a little slow. The only bad thing about having a pre-bond with him is Luke Rochewell who Mycroft really, really does not like. He asked Mummy if they can just discard the tradition of having a sentinel but Mummy forbade it and said that it’s really the choice of the Omega’s family since they’re the one’s going to choose the sentinel in the first place.

 

“It’s not bad to have Luke as Greg’s guardian,” Mummy told him while Madame Siccion was taking his measurements. “Luke’s there to make sure no one hurts Greg when he’s away from you. And besides, you’ll have an Alpha friend.”

 

 Mycroft did not tell Mummy that having Luke as a sentinel is a disadvantage as it means he’s been given permission to hurt Mycroft if he ever does something bad to Greg. He may be a year younger but he’s violent. His behaviour is just like those of the other kids in school, the ones who tease Mycroft for being too clever. Mycroft’s eyes fall on the scrapes on his fingers, made more obvious against the black background that’s Sherlock’s hair. It was Evan who pushed him for getting the answer to Mr Irving’s question right.

 

At least he didn’t cry.

 

Distantly, Mycroft hears a door slam shut, followed by voices. Father fighting with Mummy again. He’s in a horrible mood. Father doesn’t shout often but when he does, it means that he’s very angry at something and that Mycroft had better stay away. He can’t hear what they’re arguing about but their voices scare Sherlock. He begins to sob.

 

“Don’t cry,” Mycroft chides. Father is already in a bad mood and Sherlock’s crying will only worsen it. Sherlock, however, only cries harder.

 

Mycroft looks around, searching for a distraction. There are actually a lot of things to distract Sherlock. His room is cluttered with toys and picture books, gifts from family members who got excited about having another male Omega in the family after several years. Mycroft picks one toy after the other, showing them to Sherlock but they don’t make him stop weeping. The bee/bear is already in his crib and that’s the one thing that can make Sherlock stop crying. Mycroft walks around quickly until he finds the music box. It’s a small, simple thing. Not expensive either. On the lid, engraved in the dark word are the words _from Jon W_. Mycroft has no idea who Jon W. but his gift does the trick of calming Sherlock down.

 

He sets it on the armrest then pops opens the lid. A song Mycroft identifies as “Für Elise” plays. It’s not enough to drown out their parents’ voices but it’s enough to distract Sherlock. He looks at the box curiously then thrusts his arm out and points at it. Mycroft ignores him this time. He picks up the mythology book and takes a seat in the armchair.

 

He can still hear them. Mycroft looks at his brother. Sherlock’s sucking his thumb now, sleepy and content.

 

There’s a sound of glass breaking, followed by another sound, one Mycroft identifies as his mother crying.

 

Mycroft opens the book and begins to read out loud.

 

* * *

 

 

Since his parents sat him down and explained to him why he’s going to have a pre-bond with Mycroft, Greg has been going to the Holmes’ estate. Before, the Holmes’ estate was merely the huge house up on the hill that seemed to exist in a world of its own. Now it has become Greg’s favourite place in the world. He likes the enormous house with the many rooms and he likes the miniature forest and the huge pond where they can go searching for frogs. Luke, because of his sentinel duties, has to go with him as well.

 

Mycroft doesn’t like it. He and Luke haven’t liked each other since Luke tackled Mycroft to the ground and hit him again and again until the ice cream vendor pulled them apart. Greg tries not to mind it, but it’s hard when both boys keep demanding his attention. Mycroft deserves more of it, of course, because Greg’s going to have a pre-bond with him and he and Luke have known each other since they were born. But if also feels like a betrayal to Luke when Greg spends time with Mycroft.

 

So Greg just does the next best thing and hangs out with little Sherlock.

 

“Don’t touch him", Mycroft snipes at Luke who has just prodded Sherlock’s cheek with his finger. The ring around his finger has been polished and is now gleaming brightly against his pale skin. Greg looks at it enviously.

 

“Too late, I already did it,” Luke says back, his hand still hovering over Sherlock’s face. They narrow their eyes at each other, and Greg can already see it, can already see Luke tackling Mycroft and hitting him again, maybe with Sherlock’s rattle. There are no adults in the room and if they fight, Sherlock will cry, and Greg definitely doesn’t want to hear that again. His eardrums nearly burst the last time Sherlock had a tantrum. He looks at both boys quickly, searching for a solution.

 

“Your suit looks cool,” Greg says to Mycroft quickly just as Luke straightens himself. It’s grey but what Greg really likes is the silver tie pin, the one that’s shaped like an owl. Greg thinks that it’s also unfair that Mycroft gets something shiny. He doesn’t complain, though. Mycroft has this way of looking at him, like he’s far too young and doesn’t understand anything. Greg hates that look. He may be a year younger and Mycroft might be a lot smarter than him, but he’s not stupid. Luke is.

 

Mycroft frowns at him. “You’ve said that before,” he points out. Luke is staring at Greg disbelievingly, but luckily doesn’t say anything as Sherlock has grabbed onto Luke’s finger and has started gnawing on his sentinel ring.

 

“Ew, stop that!”

 

“Sherlock, that’s dirty,” Mycroft scolds over Luke’s screaming to get Sherlock away from his hand before he chews it off. Greg clamps his hands over his ears. They don’t stop arguing until the door opens and Mycroft’s mother walks in. She stands in the threshold for a moment, taking in everything: Luke’s saliva-covered ring, Mycroft’s messy hair which Luke pulled to make it stand at a funny angle, Greg with his hands over his ears, and Sherlock still trying to grab onto Luke’s hand.

 

“Go outside,” she orders them as she carries Sherlock in her arms, “before you wreck the whole house.”

 

Mycroft nods then quickly takes Greg’s left hand at the same time Luke takes his right one. They glare at each other.

 

“Let go,” Mycroft tells him.

 

“No, you let go,” Luke says back.

 

Greg looks at both of them. “I don’t really need someone to hold my hand, you know.”

 

But of course, they don’t listen to this either, so Greg ends up being tugged back-and-forth between them. Luke lets him go first, but that’s only because he gets distracted by the backyard. Greg has to admit that it does look great.

 

“That’s one big cake,” Luke says, pointing at the enormous chocolate cake on the buffet table. Greg stares at it as well. It’s big enough for him and Luke and Mycroft to get buried alive in. He thinks for a moment that Mycroft doesn’t really care about it, but when Greg looks at him, he sees that Mycroft is also looking at the cake with a fascinated expression on his face. He fixes it when he catches Greg looking, feigning disinterest.

 

 “Will it hurt?” Greg asks as Mycroft helps him up one of the high chairs they provided. Mycroft gets on his without difficulty. The doctor, the same auburn-haired man Greg saw in the hospital, pats his head encouragingly.

 

Mycroft shrugs. “I have no idea,” he admits.

 

Mycroft’s mother explained things beforehand. They’ll have to do a blood exchange. “It’s just like getting shots from the doctor,” she said. “It won’t hurt at all.”

 

It won’t hurt, she said. You’ll feel better once it’s done, she said.

 

Mycroft’s mother is a liar.

 

Luke waves at him from the crowd. Greg tries a smile, one that fades quickly when the doctor holds up a syringe with the largest needle Greg has ever seen. “Cool,” he hears Luke say as the doctor rubs alcohol on the back of his neck. The liquid cools quickly around his skin. It’s a pleasant feeling but it doesn’t last long. The needle pierces his skin slowly. Greg can’t help it. He screams.

 

Mycroft’s hand is still in his. Greg doesn’t meant to, but he squeezes hard until it’s over. A smaller needle pierces his skin once more but it’s much less painful.

 

There is something very wrong with adults, Greg thinks as he sobs and shakes in his chair. He’s still in pain and yet they’re clapping, like he’s done the most wonderful thing in the world. Greg remembers the time he fell off his bike and scraped his knee. His mother yelled at him, then, for being reckless. That didn’t even hurt. But now his neck feels like it’s on fire, and she’s just standing there, smiling at him proudly.

 

Grown-ups are weird.

 

Mycroft’s crying as well, but not as much as him. He’s wiping his face quickly, as if he’s embarrassed to be seen crying. Greg has no idea why, but the sudden urge to cling to Mycroft hits him hard. He thinks about fighting it for a moment, but his neck still hurts and all he wants is a hug and maybe some of that cake. Mycroft doesn’t even fight him off when Greg grabs onto him and buries his face in his shoulder. A few people coo over them, and Greg hears the clicking noises that means someone’s taking pictures.

 

“Sorry,” Greg tells Mycroft when he finally releases him. His neck doesn’t hurt anymore, but he feels upset again when he sees what he’s done to Mycroft’s suit. “I got snot on your owl.”

 

Mycroft looks down at his tie pin. “That’s fine,” he assures him, though Greg isn’t very convinced. He keeps looking at the pin with an unhappy expression on his face. In the end, he takes it off and leaves both pin and tie on the table.

 

Luke is already half-finished with his second slice of cake when Greg and Mycroft join him at the table. The sentinel ring is now covered in frosting and so is the lower part of his face. Greg wonders where Aunt Isobel is. He finds her soon enough and sees that she’s been distracted by one of Mycroft’s older cousins.

 

That ring really should be his. Greg’s the one looking out for Luke, not the other way around.

 

“You cried,” Luke says to Mycroft happily, his mouth full of cake. Bits of it fly out of his mouth. Mycroft backs away carefully.

 

The older boy frowns at him disapprovingly. “You made a mess.”

 

Luke doesn’t deny it; it’s not like he can, anyway. He sets his fork down, takes a long drink from his cup, belches, then announces, quite seriously, “I need to pee.”

 

Greg glares at him. “I’m not going with you! You always get me into trouble.”

 

“Fine,” Luke mutters. “You’re no fun, anyway.”

 

* * *

 

 

Luke isn’t allowed to go anywhere alone on his own. He has a penchant for breaking things, his mum said. But he really, really needs to pee, and his parents are too busy making new friends to bother with him. Not even his older sister Naomi will take him. She went off with an older kid who looks like Mycroft. Luke has learned that when his sister with is with a boy, he’s not supposed to disturb them.

 

He still needs to pee.

 

The house is quiet as most of the guests are outside, drinking and stuffing their faces. Stuffing their faces without him! That's just mean. Luke walks around quickly until he finds the bathroom. It’s quite nice, the bathroom. It has a big tub and bottles that smell really nice. Luke pees then just stands there for a moment, wondering if it will be a bad idea if he takes a bath and plays with all the shampoo and lotions.

 

_That would be very bad. Very, very bad._

He takes one of the bottles anyway.

 

The way back, Luke finds, is difficult. The house is really huge and has twisting corridors and after that even more twisting corridors. Luke scratches his head. He’s about to go to plan b (scream his head off until someone finds him) when he hears voices in the room next to him.

 

_Don’t look don’t look don’t look._

Luke stuffs the bottle of bubble bath in his pocket then peers through the small gap. There are two men inside, one of whom he recognises as Mycroft’s father. Mr Holmes is sitting while the other man is walking about, carrying something in his arms.

 

“He looks just like you, Siger,” the man says. He’s a short man with cropped blond hair and dark blue eyes. Mr Holmes looks at them both with a bored expression.

 

“He’s an Omega,” Mr Holmes complains. He makes a face, as if he’s just swallowed something disgusting.

 

The man glares at him. “You talk like he’s got a disease. He’s adorable.”

 

“Nat,” Mr Holmes says, “do you have any idea how hard it will be to raise him? Medical exams, special schools, self-defence lessons…” He wrinkles his nose. “I’ll have to find an Alpha for him as well. Yours is one, right? A boy?”

 

“John?” The man laughs. “He’s only three, Sig.”

 

“I don’t mean today. When they’re older. It will save me some trouble.”

 

“I don’t know. Maybe.” The man, Nat, grins and looks around the room. “I can’t imagine him in this setting, though. You know how we are.  We’re not…posh.”

 

“You can say that again.”

 

They laugh. Luke scratches his leg. He should go but there’s something exciting about listening in on a conversation he’s sure he’s not supposed to be hearing.

 

“He looks like Sherrinford, you know?” Mr Holmes says. Nat frowns at him. “Too much like him, in fact.”

 

“You’ve been seeing him, then?”

 

Mr Holmes purses his lips. “You don’t approve.”

 

Nat rolls his eyes. “Oh come on, Sig. I don’t know anything about bonding but I do know you’re playing a dangerous game. You can’t balance it.”

 

“Says the man who had three girlfriends when he was twenty.”

 

Nat laughs. “Shut up, Holmes, before you poison your son’s ears.”

 

Luke doesn’t want his ears poisoned. He steps away from the door as quietly as possible then rushes off to wherever the exit is.

 

He forgets about their exchange once he’s reunited with his cake.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luke has ADHD, Mycroft has a slight case of OCD. Greg's just really cute.
> 
> \--
> 
> The image of Kronos eating his children is a reference to Mycroft and Sherlock's father. The story of young Hermes and Apollo is a reference to what Mycroft's relationship will be like with Sherlock (in other words, Sherlock causing trouble). Sorry, I have a thing for Greek mythology.
> 
> \---
> 
> Nat is John's father, Jonathan. His name was mentioned in chapter 2 of TNK. 
> 
> \---
> 
> Compared to Sherlock's, Mycroft and Greg's pre-bond had a four month preparation. Sherlock was promised to John when he was just a baby so the prep was shorter, though Sherlock and John weren't told about this until they met. Sherlock's father only acted on it when Nat died in the army.
> 
> \--
> 
> I have yet to explain the sentinel thing in TNK.
> 
> Every pre-bonding ceremony has someone called a 'sentinel' (the best man in a wedding). The sentinel is chosen by the Omega's family and is tasked to make sure the Alpha doesn't abuse the Omega in any way. The sentinel is always an Alpha and is related to the Omega (if none are available, then a Beta relative would do). They have to be close to the Omega's age so they grow up together. Sentinel duties (though in modern times it's just a position, really) are released once the pair is bonded properly. Before this, the sentinel wears a ring on the ring finger of his right hand that shows he's a witness to their bond. 
> 
> Also an explanation to why Mycroft wears a ring on the wrong hand. He did say that he worries about Sherlock constantly.


	3. Life Goes On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WANT TO FINISH TNK ALREADY BUT I HAVE NO TIME TO WRITE. This chapter was written ages ago and I'm just posting it because I miss posting. Uni is eating me alive.

Greg absolutely hates the pre-bond with Mycroft.

 

Mycroft isn’t the problem. Greg likes Mycroft, even though he’s not sure Mycroft likes him back. He’s smart and talks weird and he’s different from all the other kids Greg knows. So no, it isn’t Mycroft who’s the problem. It’s the other kids in school who keep teasing him about it.

 

His parents tell him to ignore it and that he’ll learn to appreciate the bond when he’s older, but it’s hard to ignore the taunts and the discrimination. Pre-bonds aren’t common. They’re for posh families who need to preserve the family wealth and make sure they continue to have a good bloodline. But the only thing the kids in school get is that Greg is now in a higher social class than them. They tell him he thinks that they’re not good enough for him, even though Greg doesn’t think this at all. It’s actually _them_ who think they’re too good for him. He lost some of his friends, and while he did gain new ones over the years, it still hurts.

 

But what hurts most is the football.

 

Roy Hewlett is the new kid, an Alpha who Greg is sure isn’t really eight-years-old. He thinks Roy might already be thirteen and is just so stupid that he got held back a lot of times. Luke said this out loud once, and it was lucky for both of them that Roy wasn’t able to hear. “He’s probably got wax in his ears, anyway,” Luke said once they were out of danger. “That or he’s just got a booger for a brain.”

 

Greg is good at football, has always been good at it, according to his father who likes to tell stories of how when Greg was still in his mum’s belly, he was already wearing trainers. He’s even better at it than the Alphas in school, even better than Luke who’s own father was a bit of a football star during his university years. He’s the only Omega the Alpha kids allow to play with them, and he _still_ beats them.

 

But Roy ‘Booger Brain Hewlett is in the way and is telling him that he can’t play at all.  

 

“And why’s that?” Greg demands. He’s looking up at Roy who is so much bigger than him, but he doesn’t feel scared, only angry. The other kids are looking at them nervously. They keep looking back at the school, but they’re in the field, far away from any of the teachers. There are older students milling about but Greg knows from experience that they won’t do anything and will just stand there, laughing and egging them on.

 

“You’re a sissy,” Roy drawls. “You’ll probably cry if you lose.”

 

Greg’s ears burn. “No, I won’t. I’ve been playing before you even got here.”

 

Roy, however, is unfazed. He merely rolls his eyes then says, “It doesn’t change the fact that you’re still a sissy.” He leans forward a bit, sniffs, then pulls back and wrinkles his nose. “Or better yet, just go somewhere with your stupid mate.”

 

Greg wants to hit him. He nearly does, actually, but his classmate Chuck grabs his arm and shakes his head at him. Roy smirks.

 

“Greg’s been playing with us for a long time now,” a kid named Mattie speaks up. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and regards Roy fearfully. “Maybe we could—”

 

“No,” Roy snaps. He draws himself to his full height. Greg’s anger fades a little when he does it. He barely comes up to Roy’s shoulder. “I’m not letting anyone like him with us.”

 

You’ll meet a lot of sexist bastards when you grow up, Naomi, Luke’s sister, told him once when she’d picked them up from school. Roy, Greg realises, is the biggest sexist bastard he’s ever met. Well, the first, actually, but Greg doubts anyone can beat him. He turns to Luke who’s been quiet since he and Greg got to the field. He’s staring at Roy with a curious expression, a curious and very, oh so very, dangerous expression.

 

 _Inside voices!_ Greg wants to shout it but Luke is already opening his mouth and landing himself a death sentence.

 

“Do you know that you smell a lot like a monkey’s butt?”

 

Roy doesn’t even ask how Luke knows what a monkey’s butt smells like. He pulls back his arm then slams a fist in the centre of Luke’s face. There’s a sickening _crunch_ followed by a howl of pain. Greg jumps back as his cousin crumples to the ground, his hands already cupping his bleeding nose. “Wanker!” Luke yells through his fingers.

 

“You want some more, wise boy?” Roy threatens, shaking his fist at them.

 

_He doesn’t! Ignore him, he can’t control himself. He’s kind of stupid._

Luke glares at him, and, to Greg’s annoyance and admiration, spits a combination of blood and saliva in Roy’s direction. Something solid hits Roy’s chest, splattering a bit of blood on his white shirt.

 

“You’re an ugly turd, monkey butt!” Luke yells before grabbing Greg by the arm and running as fast as he can.

 

Greg knows he shouldn’t enjoy this, but it’s kind of fun to be chased by a big bully. It’s like a video game, only the pain is of course, very real. Greg’s not bothered by it, though, as they’re never caught. The advantage of his being small and Luke’s being scrawny is that they can run fast and hide in places others can’t fit in.

 

“Hurry!” Greg yells, laughing a bit as they squeeze through a hole in the chain link fence. Distantly, he hears Roy Hewlett yelling insults at them. But his voice sounds far away and the fear of being caught is distant, leaving only the exhilaration of the chase.  

 

They’re far away from the school when they finally slow down, stopping in front of a store. Luke’s doubled over, wheezing. Greg leans against the cool shop window and tries to get his breath back. “Naomi,” he pants, “will get—really—mad.” He gulps some air, waits for his heart to stop beating so quickly, then adds, “She’ll go looking for us.”

 

Luke squints at him. His face is smeared red and so is the front of his shirt. The sight is startlingly fascinating. “I lost a tooth,” he informs Greg.

 

That piques Greg’s interest. “Really?”

 

“Yeah. Check it out.” He straightens then shows Greg a huge smile. Through the bloody mess that is Luke Rochewell’s mouth, Greg sees that his two front teeth are missing. When he closes his mouth slightly, enough for the smile to be less psychotic, Greg laughs and tells him that he now looks like he has fangs.

 

“You lost two.”

 

Luke blinks then grins again. “No way! That’s so cool.”

 

Greg doesn’t tell him that Aunt Isobel will blow a gasket when she learns that Luke’s been fighting again. He does, however, put his hands on Luke’s shoulders to force him to look at him. It’s a trick Aunt Isobel’s been teaching him. “Inside voices,” he tells Luke slowly and carefully. He repeats it again until Luke becomes fed up and moves away from him.

 

“I know.”

 

“You lost two teeth,” Greg points out. “Maybe you _knew_. But then you forgot.”

 

Luke groans. “This is why I don’t like it when you hang out with Mycroft. You become a know-it-all.”

 

“Compared to you I _do_ know it all.” He pushes Luke a little. “And don’t you start in on Mycroft, either. I still haven’t forgiven you for last time.”

 

“I didn’t mean to sneeze on his face!”

 

“Yes, you did.”

 

“Did not.”

 

“Did, too.”

 

Luke snarls at him, more beast than boy at the moment, and Greg finds himself responding to it. It’s primal, the fighting, though his parents tell him that it’s not normal for an Omega to engage in fist fights. Maybe it isn’t, but it’s exhilarating and satisfying, like how ice feels on a burn, like scratching an itch, maybe.

 

Soothing is the word. Not exactly the fist that collides with Greg’s cheek, but beneath the pain is the feeling of satisfaction.

 

Luke always loses. Now that Greg’s older, he wonders if it’s because Luke is weak or he’s just taking it easy on Greg due to some misguided attempt at being polite. Another low growl interrupts his thoughts, followed by a sharp nip to Greg’s left ear. Greg retaliates by slamming an elbow in Luke’s gut. Luke grabs on to his forearms, and they both go down on the pavement. The warm concrete doesn’t stop either of them. What does the job is a hand pulling Greg away from Luke by the scruff of his neck, pulling him up until his feet are dangling an inch from the ground.

 

Naomi sets Greg down gently before she hauls Luke up and swats the back of his head with the rolled-up magazine in her hand. “Bad puppy!” she bites out. Luke, truly like a dog in personality, whimpers a little before he catches himself.

 

“Dad is going to murder you!” she yells when Luke shows her his missing teeth. There’s a real threat in there because Luke suddenly loses the bright smile on his face. He’s not a bad man, Mr Rochewell. But he’s strict and his voice frightens Luke. Greg knows this, remembers all too well the time Luke burst into tears when they fuelled his father’s rage by breaking a window while playing football (entirely Greg’s fault). He turns to Greg for assistance.

 

“Someone hit him,” Greg explains. He looks at Naomi, studies her, then adds, “He’s a…sexist bastard?”

 

The change is instant. Greg finds himself being squeezed to death against Luke who tenses in his older sister’s arms. Greg knew it would work. Naomi likes things like this, likes defending people’s rights and saying things that neither of them understand. They are important, Greg thinks, these things Naomi likes to talk about. However, both Luke and Greg hate it because she always forces them to listen to whatever speech she made up. But it’s different now and Greg thanks the gods that she’s weird like that because she’s hugging them instead of killing them slowly and painfully. “How about a treat?” she asks once she relinquishes her death-grip on them. Before they can even answer, they’re taken to a different part of town, the Alpha turf as his mother likes to call it. Greg looks at his surroundings in discomfort, pressing closer to Naomi when a few boys pass by, shouting at each other.

 

“Not there,” Naomi chides when Greg pauses to look at a comic book store. She takes his hand and leads him inside the smaller shop next to it.

 

The first thing that registers in Greg’s mind is the music. It’s a loud song, the kind of song that sounds as if there are about three drummers and a guitarist that may have drank far too much coffee or really, really needs to pee. Greg looks for the source of the sound, but is distracted by the great number of shiny acoustic guitars hanging at the back wall. Luke, already enthralled by the place, escapes from Naomi’s clutches and runs towards the nearest drum set, only to be stopped by a tall man with his hair tied back in messy ponytail.

 

“Whoa there, cub,” Messy Ponytail says as he picks Luke up and deposits him next to Greg. “Don’t mess with the equipment.”

 

“Aren’t you that guy in the shower last week?”

 

Messy Ponytail laughs nervously and doesn’t answer the question, his silence telling Greg that he _was_ the man in the shower. He grins when he sees Naomi. “Hey,” he says as he wraps his arms around her. They’re going to kiss, Greg thinks, but he doesn’t get to see it because Luke puts his hands over Greg’s eyes.

 

“What are you doing?” Greg asks as he struggles in Luke’s hold.

 

“You can’t see kissing! As your sentinel, I’m not allowing you to see—hey, you’re scratching me!”

 

“No fighting in here!” Naomi yells when Greg bends his knees, ready to launch himself at Luke. They have stopped, thankfully, but her arms are still around him and it just feels weird to see two people wrapped around each other like…Well, whatever it is that likes to wrap around you. Blankets around your ankles in the morning, maybe.

 

“How about you guys go downstairs?” Messy Ponytail asks. He turns to Luke. “To get yourself cleaned up. You look like a mess.”

 

“Not as much as you.”

 

Greg pinches Luke’s side, earning another snarl from him. “There’s food down there as well,” the man continues, his attention already on Naomi. Whatever animosity Luke feels towards Messy Ponytail fades at the promise of food.

 

The basement is weird. Greg has always thought of basements as this dark, scary place with a lot of twisting pipes and the sound of water dripping. He has also always thought of it as the best place to lock Luke whenever he annoys Greg (which is often). Luke has always thought of it as the best place to lock Mycroft in when he’s being…well, being himself. This then leads to Greg letting Mycroft out and him locking Luke in the basement. In his eight years of living, Greg Lestrade has always thought that basements are a No Kid’s Land.

 

He has never thought that he would see it as a small paradise.

 

There is a water bed. That alone is enough to make Greg think how cool this place is. “Jump on it,” Luke dares and Greg doesn’t even need to be told twice.

 

“So who is he then?” Greg asks as he jumps up and down and up and down. He hasn’t even removed his shoes but Messy Ponytail’s anger is, at the moment, not the first thing in Greg’s mind. The only thing in his mind right now is to jump and jump until he gets tired or he breaks the water bed.

 

“Naomi’s stupid boyfriend,” Luke mutters. He takes off his blood-splattered uniform and dons one of Messy Ponytail’s shirts. It’s far too big for him and looks almost like a dress but Greg doesn’t comment on it because something has distracted him. He stops jumping and just stares at the shirt for a long time, feeling a mixture of dread and fascination as he looks.

 

“That’s a bad shirt,” he says finally.

 

“No, it’s not.”                                                                           

 

Greg points at the black letters across Luke’s chest. “It is. The word.”

 

Luke frowns at his shirt. “Buzzcocks?”

 

“That word!” Greg yells. At the moment, he feels like he’s much older than Luke and far more responsible. Well, even more than usual. “I’m telling on you!”

 

“It is not!” Luke yells back but his face is a little pale and he’s looking at the shirt like he wants to tear it off and burn it. They both glance at the door leading up the music store then at each other.

 

“Don’t.”

 

“You said it.”

 

“I say ‘wanker’ all the time!”

 

“That’s different and you know it.”

 

“You’re such a square,” Luke argues.

 

“I’m not a shape, you idiot.”

 

Luke stares at him defiantly. He takes a deep breath, his fists raised, and Greg wonders if they will fight again. He slides off the bed and gets ready for it but the fists never come. Only Luke’s voice.

 

“COCK!” he yells loudly. Greg doesn’t know why, but it may be the fear he feels towards that word, that or the fear of what will come later if Naomi hears. He has tasted lye soap before and it was a mistake, a huge mistake he no longer wants to commit because lye soap truly tastes disgusting. So it is fear, the deep-seated fear brought by that word that makes Greg Lestrade move and tackle his cousin to the ground.

 

(A few years later, a fourteen-year-old Greg Lestrade will suddenly think about this moment while drinking a cup of coffee, and it will make him laugh and—unfortunately—spill coffee all over his date, that being one Mycroft Holmes who will just look at him a little exasperatedly, a little fondly, and tell him that coffee just spurted out of his nose).

 

There is nothing playful about it this time and Luke, finally showing his true strength, manages to shove Greg away and slam him against the turntable. There is a brief flash of pain but Greg ignores this and Luke ignores this.  They stand, just about to leap at each other once more when there is a hissing sound, followed by a guitar and the deep voice of a man, so riveting that it distracts them both.

 

“That’s a cool song,” Luke says after a moment of listening.

 

“Yeah,” Greg admits.

 

They look at each other again and in silent agreement, they sit down and take out Messy Ponytail’s box of 45’s. “Johnny Cash,” Greg says, holding up the empty sleeve holding the vinyl record currently playing.

 

Luke stares at the sleeve sombrely. A part of Greg somehow knows that this is the beginning, the start of a summer—no, _years_ —of admiration towards big bands and loud noises and when they’re a little older, the near godlike worshipping of _leather_. But for now it’s just them and the turntable and quite a lot of Johnny Cash and Elvis Presley.

 

The record stops. Greg turns to his cousin.

 

“Play it again.”

 

* * *

 

 

The bookshelf is burning.

 

Mycroft immediately drops his book and watches in shock as several first-edition novels are consumed in flames. The fire’s not big, not by a longshot, but Mycroft’s two-year-old brother is standing before it, naked from the waist down (again) and has one of Father’s lighters in one hand.

 

“Sherlock!” Mycroft yells just as the sprinklers are activated, dousing both of them in cold water. The books are ruined, Mycroft thinks, and he thanks the higher beings that Father is abroad again. He can’t hide it from Mummy, of course, but Father won’t return until next month which will give them enough time to hide most of the damage.

 

“Come here,” Mycroft orders. Sherlock just blinks at him, looks at the lighter, then brings the device to his mouth. Mycroft quickly snatches it out of his hand, causing Sherlock to whine and stamp his foot.

 

“MINE!”

 

“No, not yours. This is Father’s.”

 

Sherlock is aware that it’s Fathers. Mycroft knows this because Sherlock has been told countless of times already to not go in Father’s study, but Sherlock, only a few weeks shy from his second birthday, thinks that everything in the world belongs to him. He thinks that Mummy’s pearls belongs to him, that Mycroft’s new telescope belongs to him. He even thinks that _Greg_ belongs to him. And while Greg sort of does belong to Mycroft and him to Greg, there is something extremely wrong about a child claiming a human being as his sole property.

 

Sherlock is spoiled. He destroys and steals things and if you scold him, he will either cry shrilly or attack you with his fists or the nearest object in hand. It is not Mummy’s fault and it’s definitely not Father’s, who gets headaches whenever he’s around Sherlock for too long. It is Mycroft’s fault, perhaps, because he’s not as strict as Father is towards Sherlock. He is certain that it is their relatives fault as they have a great part in Sherlock’s overindulgence. They don’t live with him so they don’t know how wild he can be. To them, Sherlock is just this little angel who needs to be pampered all the time because of his status as an Omega. To them, little Sherlock can’t even hurt a fly. Mycroft never bothers to tell them the story of how Sherlock accidentally (?) killed a pigeon. They won’t believe him, anyway.

 

Sherlock whines again and begins to hit Mycroft’s knees with his fists. “Give!” he shrieks, trying to grab the lighter. Mycroft holds it high, ignoring the sharp pain brought by the hard kick Sherlock delivers to his shin. For a moment, he thinks that this shouldn’t be his life. He is only nine-years-old. He should do what other nine-year-olds do, like what Greg and Luke enjoy doing (though football and roughhousing has never truly appealed to him). But instead he’s here, making sure his baby brother doesn’t wreck the house or get himself killed.

 

“You need a time out,” Mycroft scolds as he picks up Sherlock and takes him out of the library. He squirms in Mycroft’s arms and even tries to bite him but Mycroft has learned how to hold Sherlock without getting hurt—throw him over your shoulder and press your arm against his legs to stop him from kicking you. That leaves his back in a vulnerable position but as Sherlock’s legs are the most dangerous part of him, Mycroft thinks it’s a worthy sacrifice.

 

The sitter is, as Mycroft expected, just coming up the stairs. She’s young, only a student. Normally, Mummy would never hire anyone so young, but so-and-so needed help in her charity ball or grand dinner or whatever it is rich women do when they have too much time on their hands. And the household staff can’t be bothered to look after Sherlock—they’re too busy cleaning up the mess Sherlock makes.

 

“Why are you two so wet?” she asks. Mycroft says nothing and just stares at her. She didn’t do her job, he thinks. Sherlock could have fallen somewhere or cut himself or he could have plunged a fork in the electrical socket (again). He worries about Sherlock a lot, because, while Sherlock may be a hellion, Mycroft does love him. There is also the fact that he fears what his parents might say if they see that he’s neglected his brother.

 

And it’s her fault. Sherlock smells faintly of smoke, and the scent makes him aware of the wet library and the ruined books and of how Mummy will be very disappointed with him when she comes back. Her disappointment is sometimes worse than Father’s anger because it is rarely directed at him. He doesn’t want that.

 

It’s all her fault.

 

“You’re fired.”

 

She stares at him disbelievingly then begins to laugh. Sherlock stops squirming in his hold.

 

“Yeah, right.” She pats his head fondly. “I’ll take Sherlock now.”

 

“No, you’re fired.” Mycroft glares at her. _Sherlock could have gotten hurt_. “You didn’t do your job properly.”

 

She opens her mouth to argue, to tell him that he’s being silly and can he please just hand his little brother to her? But Mycroft speaks first. “If you go away now, I won’t tell your boyfriend that you’re cheating on him.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Mycroft doesn’t even bother giving her an answer. He goes to Sherlock’s room and changes his clothes himself. The sitter doesn’t follow them, and it’s just as well that she didn’t—he rarely makes vain threats.

 

“No!” Sherlock shouts when Mycroft holds up his trousers. “Don’t want!”

 

“You’re putting these on and that’s final.”

 

Sherlock dodges him then throws the bee/bear at Mycroft’s face. Mycroft catches it and holds it gingerly with his thumb and forefinger. It’s more than a little worse for wear. The left ear is torn, one beady eye hangs by a few threads, and the stuffing is peeking out from the seam on its belly. Mycroft has thought more than once to throw the thing away but it’s the only way to bribe Sherlock into doing something he doesn’t want to do.

 

As soon as he sees his favourite toy acting as hostage, Sherlock immediately stops screaming and sets down his next weapon (a box of crayons). “Put on your trousers or you won’t get this,” Mycroft threatens, holding the bear high. Sherlock looks at the bear then at the bookshelf in his room. Mycroft nods. “That’s right. If you don’t behave, I’m going to put this on the top shelf where you can’t reach it.”

 

“Mine!”

 

Mycroft walks towards the shelf, still holding the bear up. Sherlock begins to cry, this time for real. It’s easy enough to differentiate Sherlock’s fake crying from his real one. The real one has none of the harsh shrieking. It’s disturbingly quiet and Mycroft wonders what Sherlock learning to control his sobbing at an early age means. Mycroft lowers the toy and moves to him. “Trousers?” he asks and Sherlock nods, still sniffling even when Mycroft has finished dressing him and has placed the bear in his arms.

 

The angelic act does not last long. Sherlock reaches up and pinches his arm before running out the room.

 

The house is much too quiet, and Mycroft, knowing just how bored Sherlock can be when there’s no one to entertain him, grabs his hand and takes him outside. The only adult present is Jules, the gardener. He eyes them suspiciously, then warns Mycroft not to let Sherlock anywhere near the flowerbeds. “You heard that, Sherlock?” Mycroft says as he seats his brother next to him. “No more chasing bees.”

  
Sherlock’s only reply is to grab a stick and poke him between his ribs.

 

Thankfully, it is a Friday. He hears the Lestrades’ car pull up the driveway, Greg’s father greeting one of the staff cordially before he bids Greg goodbye. Mycroft braces himself for Luke Rochewell’s teasing but relaxes once he sees that it’s only Greg today. “Hello,” he greets, grinning wildly as he wraps his arms around Mycroft’s middle, squeezing slightly. Mycroft knows he is meant to squeeze back but he doesn’t understand why this must be done so he just stands there and pats Greg’s back a bit.

 

“Luke got into trouble,” Mycroft says. It’s not a question; it’s a statement. Greg nods.

 

“He had to go to the dentist. He lost his teeth. A bully knocked them out.”

 

Mycroft blinks, startled. He’s never seen Greg or his cousin as the type to be bullied, but rather, he sees them as the bullies. Luke is obvious. There’s a malicious glint in his eyes and he likes to taunt others. Greg is more subtle. A bystander, rather. He doesn’t participate, but he doesn’t help, either.

 

But then, Greg and Luke don’t know about the other kids who make fun of him.

 

Appearances can be very deceiving.

 

Someone shoves him away from Greg. It’s Sherlock, of course. It must be an Omega thing, Mycroft thinks, the one that makes Sherlock so possessive of Greg. He hopes that it is not a Sherlock thing because that would lead to several therapy sessions and possibly a white room with padded walls.

 

“Hello,” Greg greets as he picks Sherlock up, staggering slightly when Sherlock wraps his limbs around him like a vice. “Loosen up, you’re choking me.”

 

“Mine,” Sherlock mutters.

 

Greg just laughs and kisses his forehead. Mycroft finds himself staring at the two of them. There’s a strange feeling in his chest. Heartburn, maybe, but that’s impossible. He’s only nine and they don’t have a history of heart problems in their family.

 

It’s gone before Mycroft can put a name to it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're so adorable. At this stage.


	4. The Joy of Puberty by Matilda Neville

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remembered grade school. Too much, I'm afraid.

The synonym of puberty is awkward. 

The Oxford Dictionary doesn’t state this. None of the academic dictionaries that have ever been written has stated this, and yet Greg Lestrade thinks that they _should_ because it is the word that comes into his mind whenever someone even mentions puberty. Everyone at this stage is awkward. Pimples and growth spurts and hair sprouting in odd places, not to mention the scents. Greg wonders if this is God’s punishment for people. He wonders at the capability of people to be attracted to each other at this stage because in his opinion, everyone looks horrible, even the more good-looking ones.

Puberty crawls into his life slowly, unlike with Luke and Mycroft, both of whom are suddenly a head taller than him, making Greg feel rather small and bug-like in their presence. It’s nice, though, that he doesn’t look as awkward as the others. His scent gets stronger and with that comes Luke and Mycroft’s overprotectiveness. This, of course, leads to the two of them fighting even more than usual. It makes his parents even more annoying than usual, not to mention their newfound level of embarrassing as they now have the tendency to watch over him whenever Mycroft visits. Greg knows why and it’s ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous because he’s not going to do that. Mycroft seems like he isn’t even capable of doing that. Doing anything beyond shaking Greg’s hand makes him tense up already.

Greg hates his parents so much right now. It is normal for every child to feel hatred towards their parents at one point in their lives. Parents are strange creatures. They know things and every child has a tendency to out-know them at such things because—according to Luke—there is a rebellious bug in every teenager’s brain that may or may not fall out, depending on whether or not your perception of your parents will change for the better. Greg thinks this is bull. Well, the bug part anyway. He loves them, true, but he also hates them because they have made it their life goal to embarrass him as much as possible. This is rather far-fetched, and he’s aware of this. But he’s also quite aware of the pain in his lower jaw and of the knowledge that everything will go downhill from here.

“Don’t be silly, honey,” his mother scolds. To his horror, she actually grabs his hands and tries to wrench them away from his mouth. “They look wonderful.”

“I look stupid!” he yells through his fingers. If he can find a way to glue his hands to his mouth permanently, then maybe he can escape this whole fiasco. Then again, he wouldn’t be able to eat, and he does get hungry easily. 

But still, that’s better than facing ridicule. 

“No you don’t. Look.” She grabs him by the shoulder and forces him to look at himself in the rear view mirror. Greg looks at his reflection, horrified. His height makes him feel awkward already. Even if he doesn’t look awkward he _feels_ it, like knowing you have an aneurism in your brain and you’re just waiting for Death to make you keel over. The stupid railway attached to his teeth will surely kill him. Not to mention the nicknames Luke will come up with once he sees. And Mycroft. Oh crap Mycroft. He’ll give Greg that smug you-look-ridiculous look that he gives Luke on a daily basis, the one that makes Greg feel like he has the IQ of a centipede compared to Mycroft.

“I look stupid,” Greg repeats, confirming it. “I’m never getting out of this car. Ever.”

“Oh, Greg, don’t be so melodramatic. You’ll only have them for a year, anyway. Your teeth aren’t that bad.”

“Then I shouldn’t have gotten these in the first place!” he yells.

“Honey,” she says and Greg immediately swallows the next stream of complaints threatening to come out of his mouth. He scowls but relaxes his body to show his compliancy. Nothing good comes out of arguing with his parents. If he shouts too much his mother will burst into tears and his father, well, his father won’t like that. It’s not like they whip him or anything whenever he acts out, but washing the car and cleaning the gutters aren’t chores Greg likes to do.

“This doesn’t mean I like them.” He shuts his eyes. He’s not vain, damn it, he’s a guy. Being an Omega doesn’t turn him into a pansy, no matter how much the other boys tell him it does. He won’t even look in a mirror until he has to or until Luke’s taped something to his back or until Mycroft tells him that Luke’s taped something to his back. But he really, really did not want to go through with this. “I’ll hate them forever.”

“Give it time.” She kisses the top of his head and Greg quickly looks to see if anyone has seen before remembering that the car windows are tinted. “I love you, be good, and don’t let Luke get himself into trouble.”

“Okay,” he mutters as he opens the car door and steps out. He watches the car speed down the street before he wraps his scarf around his mouth and heads off to the school building.

* * *

Luke’s reaction is quite Luke-ian, meaning he’s a flurry of movement. Greg tenses. “What’s that?” he asks as soon as he sees Greg, bounding up to him like a puppy on drugs. “Why are you covering your mouth? Why do you have a scarf? It’s hot. Are you hiding candy in there? Give me some!” 

Mycroft’s reaction is to look at Greg, do this lip-twitch thing that tells Greg he’s amused, then promptly tells Luke to keep quiet as he’s attracting too much attention. “Clenching your jaw will only make it hurt more,” Mycroft tells him as he unwinds the scarf and hands it to Luke. “Let me see.”

Greg considers gluing his mouth shut but discards it as soon as he sees Mycroft’s face. He hesitates for a moment before he opens his mouth, enough for the two of them to see the disaster that has happened to his teeth. 

“You got braces? Shit, you look stupid!” Luke gapes. “Well, more than usual.”

“Shut up!” Greg hits him with his bag but Luke dodges so he ends up hitting Mycroft on the chest instead. “Sorry, My. Why are you two together, anyway? You should be killing each other right now.”

“I’m serving as a guide,” Mycroft explains. Behind him, Luke rolls his eyes and makes a rude gesture at Mycroft which, of course, Mycroft ignores. “Since you two will go to school in separate buildings next year, you have to attend guidance counselling. There will be a speaker and after that, you’ll watch a film—the same thing my class watched last year.”

“Oh,” Greg says. Right, he forgot that Mycroft won’t be in the same building with them anymore. He looks past Mycroft, at the dark grey building where the older Alphas and Betas are. Across this, a short distance away, is the B building where the older Omegas and a few Betas go. Mycroft’s absence doesn’t bother Greg as he hardly ever even sees Mycroft as he’s a year older than them. Separating from Luke, however, is a foreign concept that Greg just can’t wrap his mind around. _Who’ll make sure he doesn’t get himself killed next year? Not Mycroft, that’s for sure._

Luke scrunches up his face. “Why do we even need a guide?” he asks, his voice challenging. “We know where the theatre is. We can find it on our own.”

“It’s an…interesting film.” Mycroft shifts his weight from one foot to the other, obviously nervous despite the neutral expression on his face. Greg thinks that it must be an interesting film to make Mycroft Holmes nervous. How it is interesting, Greg is not sure if he wants to find out, not when it can unnerve Mycroft like that. Finally, Mycroft clears his throat, fiddles with the cuff of his shirtsleeve, then says, “I’m going to check whether or not Sherlock’s in class. You know how he is. You two stay put. Someone will be here to collect you, shortly.”

Luke yells after him but Mycroft hurries on and doesn’t look back. “Git,” Luke growls. He tosses the scarf back at Greg then hefts his bag over his shoulders. “I’m not going to wait for some stupid guide. Let’s go ahead and get the best seats.”

“I think it’s alphabetised.”

“Screw that. I’m not sitting next to Gloria Rutherford again. Come on, Metal Mouth.” He flashes Greg a mocking smile. Greg considers the weight of the punishment they’ll get if they’re caught. It won’t be much, he thinks as he runs after his cousin. 

The theatre is half-full of nervous twelve-year-olds, looking a lot like pigs being led into a slaughterhouse in Greg’s opinion. But as nobody asks and Luke will only cause trouble if he shares this thought, he keeps it to himself. Instead, Greg forces Luke to duck as they make their way to the back of the room. “I smell gum,” Luke whispers. He presses his nose into the dirty carpet flooring. “Yup. Watermelon.”

“All I can smell is your butt.” Greg pokes the bony arse in front of his face, urging Luke to crawl faster. “Quickly. If Bartleby sees us, we’re dead.”

“ _I’m_ dead,” Luke corrects. “He loves you since you’re married to Mycroft and everything.”

“I’m not married to Mycroft!” Greg hisses. Alright, he is. Sort of. Slightly. But that doesn’t mean it’s official. It’s not permanent and—and—Marriage is just weird, alright? He’s not even attracted to Mycroft and Mycroft doesn’t like him in that way and Greg is certain that he never will because, well, because he’s Mycroft. He doesn’t do that. All he cares about are studying and Sherlock.

“He wants to murder me, you know? Bartleby, I mean,” Luke says casually as he takes a seat in a darkened corner which Greg is sure houses the rumoured ghost of the main theatre. There’s no such thing as ghosts, he thinks as takes a seat next to Luke. The only thing he has to fear is Luke’s tendency to forgo subtlety and give their position away. Bartleby, their perfectionist troll of a headmaster, certainly won’t let them get away with it. He hates children, Luke especially, though Greg is certain that if he somehow becomes a headmaster when he grows up, he’ll hate children with Luke’s attitude, as well. 

“I know it, Greg,” Luke continues, dropping his voice to a whisper as the noise in the room slowly gives way to silence, “even though he doesn’t say it. He just looks at me like he wants to see me choking on my own spit or something. It’s like that thing with the eye and the old man.”

“I think you’re talking about Poe’s “Tell-tale Heart”,” Greg says. “That was Sherlock’s bedtime story when he was a baby.”

“Crazy family,” yawns Luke. He throws his arms over his head and stretches, his back arching until his arse is at least an inch off the leather seat. “Crazy, crazy family. Telling creepy stories to little kids. That’s not normal.”

 _As if you would know the definition of normal._ “Eating chewed gum off the floor is normal, then?”

“That was one time.”

“It wasn’t your gum,” Greg reasons but Luke’s no longer listening. He’s already got his eyes on the stage which has been lit at some point during their mindless conversation and has, at some point, welcomed a skinny Chinese woman wearing the largest eyeglasses Greg has ever seen. “Buzz, buzz,” Luke whispers. Greg quickly pinches one of his ears between his thumb and forefinger, smiling to himself when he feels Luke relax in the chair beside his. It’s an old trick Naomi taught him, something he’s learned calms most Alphas down. He’s never tried it on Mycroft, though, and Greg’s not sure if it will even work on him.

“Good morning, children,” the woman says shakily, the microphone distorting her voice so that it sounds tinny and slightly alien-like. This will be boring, Greg thinks. He puts his feet over the back of the chair in front of his, keeping it there when he receives no complaint from the person in front. Luke slumps in his seat, pulls off his sentinel ring, and pops it in his mouth. 

“Gross,” Greg remarks. “You’ve got no breeding whatsoever.”

Luke traps the ring between his teeth and makes a face at him.

“I’m Dr. Chung,” the woman continues in the same tiny voice, “ and I’m here to talk about the wonders of P-U-B-E-R-T-Y. Say it with me now, _puberty_.”

Luke spits the ring in his palm and sits up so fast Greg fears he may have snapped his spinal cord. “Wait. What did she say?” he asks as an uncomfortable murmuring breaks over the audience. 

“I think this is what Mycroft means by ‘interesting’,” Greg whispers as the lights go out. For a moment they’re flooded in darkness. But time passes and slowly, slowly, a large square of light appears in front of the room. The projector first shows a blank screen but letters drop until they form the words that Greg is certain will haunt everyone’s dreams tonight.

“’The Joy of Puberty’ by Matilda Neville,” Dr. Chung squeaks in a cheerful voice. “Chapter One…”

* * *

It’s not that bad. It’s not good either, but there are parts that they can laugh at, like the wet dreams and mammary glands and hormones and things like that. Some jokes are started, and of course, Greg’s name is mentioned several times when they get to the topic of pre-bonds. He slumps further down his seat when he hears Dr. Chung talking about it, tuning her out immediately once she mentions ‘falling in love’ because that’s not something he wants to think about now. Or ever, possibly. Next to him, Luke makes vomiting noises but turns quiet when Chapter 8 is finished and a new slide appears.

“Understanding Birth,” Dr. Chung reads, still in that cheerful voice that makes Greg think of the witch who tried to eat Hansel and Gretel. He closes his eyes and is about to drift off to sleep, when all of a sudden, Luke grabs his hand in a harsh grip, startling him awake.

He deeply regrets it.

There’s screaming from a few of them but mostly there’s just this awestruck silence as they watch the baby slowly slide out from between the Omega’s legs. There’s blood and screaming and what looks to be a miniature demon threatening to tear their eardrums as the doctor on screen pats its back. Greg’s stomach churns. _I came out like that. Is that supposed to happen? That’s not normal, that’s not, it just can’t be normal. It looks like ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers’. I don’t want that to happen to me!_ He clamps a hand over his mouth and forces himself to think of something else, something nice, something that will keep the bile from spilling out of his throat.

“Oh god…” Luke moans miserably. Greg sneaks a glance at him and sees that he’s a bit green. His eyes widen at Greg. _Let’s make a run for it!_

Greg swallows. Screw Bartleby, he thinks. He grabs Luke and together, they run out through the fire exit.

“WHAT WAS THAT?” Luke yells, his eyes looking like they’re about to pop from his head. He points an accusing finger at the direction of the theatre. “That was not—that was sick! That was immoral! I’m not going to sleep for weeks because of that!”

“Sick?” Greg shrieks. He can’t help it. He knows he’s acting ridiculous but that was the most terrifying thing he’s ever seen. He knows about birth, alright. He knows about blood and pain but he’s never seen it. His heart is racing and there’s cold sweat sliding down his face. He’s in hysterics and Luke knows it and he knows it but damn it, there is absolutely no way to get rid of it quickly. “You’re an Alpha! You’re never going to have to—to do _that!_ ”

Luke’s mouth opens. He closes it then grabs Greg by the shoulders and shakes him firmly. “Don’t get pregnant, Greg,” he tells him, gripping him even harder to emphasize the weight of their conversation. “Ever. Don’t even touch Mycroft or—or—You are not going to go through that!”

“I’m only twelve! Don’t tell me things like that!”

“So you want to do that then???”

“NO!” 

“And you won’t. You never have to, understand? I’ll kill Mycroft before he can even think about it.” He wraps his arms around Greg and squeezes hard. “You’re squishy,” he says, signalling the end to his momentary seriousness. His arms feel weightless when Luke finally releases him. “That won’t end for another two hours. We should go somewhere.”

“Food?” Greg asks. Another thing about this whole puberty thing is the constant hunger pangs. It’s either hormones or it’s because Luke keeps stealing his lunch. It’s a combination of the two, he thinks. 

Luke rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Mycroft’s still _in_ there, right?” he says after a moment of looking like he was trying to remove the skin from the lower half of his face. “Hmm...You know what I want? I’d loooove some ice cream right now.”

Greg stuffs his hands in his pockets before realising that he left his bag in the theatre. “Damn,” he murmurs. “Got any money on you?”

“Greg,” Luke says, looking as if Greg has just insulted his mother, his father, and his future children. “When have I ever been allowed to handle money?”

Greg blinks and Luke smiles slowly, that annoying smile that says _well, you’re finally catching up with me!_ Greg hates that smile. It’s the smile that tells him he’ll get into a lot of trouble if he does what Luke wants. However, it seems that he’s fallen a bit in love with getting into trouble. That’s the only explanation for why he hardly ever resists when that smile appears.

Greg runs his tongue over the sharp metal brackets stuck to his teeth, thinking hard. Pros: 1) They never get caught and there’s free ice cream. 2) It will keep Luke entertained. Cons: 1) Mycroft will kill them.

“Fine,” Greg says and Luke whoops in delight. 

* * *

“You look stupid. Your mouth, especially.” Sherlock’s uniform is too big for him. Greg takes note of a missing button and what looks to be a child’s handprint made with neon blue paint set between his shoulder blades. There’s a leaf stuck to his hair and his nose is nipped red with cold. He sniffs and rubs the snot away with the back of his hand. It should be disgusting. It is disgusting, actually, but it doesn’t look like it is because Sherlock, despite the dirty clothes and his dirty face, still looks every bit like an angelic child. Something Greg knows all too well that he’s not in terms of personality. “Mycroft won’t like this. He’ll get mad at you.”

“You like making your brother angry,” Luke reminds him, saving Greg from making a fool of himself in front of a six-year-old. “Think of it as an adventure. Besides, it’s not like this is the first time we’re going to do this. You lot are expected to be napping or shitting your pants, anyway.” He lifts his arms, reaching for Sherlock but Sherlock doesn’t budge. 

“He doesn’t like you, remember?” Greg whispers to Luke. To make a point, he mirrors Luke’s move. Sherlock doesn’t even hesitate. With alarming dexterity for such a small thing, he slides off the window sill and falls into Greg’s arms. Greg huffs a bit under his weight but manages to keep his balance. 

“You smell.”

“Give me a break—your building’s a lot farther than ours.”

“What’s in this for me?” Sherlock asks once Greg has set him down. 

“Ice cream,” Greg starts to say before he remembers that Sherlock’s going to be the one doing all the work. He turns to Luke but only gets a shrug in response. _Don’t look at me_ , he seems to be saying, _he doesn’t like me and I don’t like him much, either._

Greg scratches the side of his nose. _Sneak in the science lab?_

Luke’s raises his eyebrows comically. _Easy._

“A snake floating in formaldehyde,” Greg tells him, saying it quickly in case sanity catches him. Damn, Mycroft really will murder him. And all for some ice cream. God, he should really think about where his priorities lie. “How about that?”

“Done.” Sherlock walks ahead then stops and turns back to him. “Carry me.”

“You’re heavy.”

“I’m not. I’ll tell on you.” He lifts his arms once more. “I’m _tired_ ,” he adds with a whine that tells Greg his only choice is to do it if he doesn’t want Sherlock to throw a tantrum. He scowls at Luke before he kneels and lets Sherlock clamber onto his back. Greg smells sweat and honey and the still slightly unfamiliar scent of John on Sherlock. It’s only been three weeks since Sherlock’s pre-bond with nine-year-old John Watson, and, well, it’s something they don’t talk about in Sherlock’s presence. He hates the idea of having a partner. What’s even more annoying for him is that Mycroft is his sentinel and has the ring to prove it. But really, Greg thinks, whom did Sherlock expect?

Then again, given the choice, he definitely would not have picked Luke for his sentinel. 

“You have John to do that for you,” Luke comments after a quick glance at the two of them. At the very mention of John, Sherlock snarls and tightens his grip on Greg, nearly choking him. He staggers a bit under Sherlock’s weight. 

“Don’t,” he hisses at Luke.

“But he does. Well, during the summer anyway. It’s an advantage, you know,” Luke says before Sherlock can protest. “Greg hardly ever gets into trouble thanks to Mycroft’s being a teacher’s pet. You can use John to your advantage. Experiment on him, maybe.”

“Idiot,” Greg snaps. He frees one hand to slap the back of Luke’s head. “Don’t tell him things like that!”

“Says the boy who used Mycroft’s name to get out of detention,” Luke says cheerily. He runs ahead then, very much like a squirrel, clambers up the chain link fence surrounding the playground of primary school building. He jumps off the other side then waits for Sherlock to follow him up. 

“It’s not my fault,” Greg answers once Sherlock has made it to the other side. It’s an easy climb, especially since they’ve been doing this for ages. “I didn’t do it intentionally. I merely mentioned that I needed to go outside to tell Mycroft not to wait for me anymore because I had detention and couldn’t go with his family to this stupid dinner.”

“It _was_ stupid,” Sherlock agrees. 

“Shush. Anyway, I’m not a user.”

“You’re using me to get free ice cream,” Sherlock reminds them. Unfortunately for Greg, he resumes his former position on Greg’s back. 

“That’s different.”

“How?”

For a moment Luke struggles to find an answer. And for a moment, he nearly has it. A light sparks in his eyes, an oh-I-have-it! smile appears on his face. But it dies two seconds later and he merely turns to Greg, defeated, and says, “Race you to the shop.”

“I have a six-year-old to carry.”

“We can take turns.”

Sherlock scowls at Luke and clings to Greg. “No.”

“Ah well…” Luke flashes them a mocking grin. “C’est la guerre!” he yells then tears off. Greg curses inwardly, adjusts his hold on Sherlock, before he goes after him.

* * *

To be honest, Sherlock scares Greg sometimes. It’s not the tantrums and the intelligence that make him feel uncomfortable when he’s around Sherlock for too long. It’s his ability to manipulate people so easily. Greg is not sure if he’s learned this from someone or if it’s inborn. He recalls several incidents of Mycroft asking people—older, respectable people—to do things for him when Sherlock was still a baby. And they wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever it was Mycroft asked of them. It must be a Holmes thing, though Greg has noticed that Mycroft and Sherlock use this…this _thing_ differently.

With Mycroft, it’s all about being posh. It’s about appearing older than your years and it’s about looking like nothing that will come your way will surprise you. Mycroft puts on this authoritative tone in his voice that just makes people _listen_ to him. It’s a talent, one that Greg can never hope to copy. 

With Sherlock, it’s sweetness. It helps that he looks every bit an innocent child. Sherlock will only have to smile at someone and everyone will flock to him and give him what he wants. The smile is dangerous enough, but the crocodile tears are deadly. The moment you look at Sherlock while he does his fake crying, you’ve already lost the battle. He has this way of making it look like he has the world on his shoulders when he cries. What disturbs Greg the most about it is, he’s not sure _how_ Sherlock learned to cry like that. 

He doesn’t really want to find out.

“Genius,” Luke praises when Sherlock finally walks out, balancing three huge ice cream cones in his hands. “I should bring you a live snake.”

Greg pinches Luke’s side quickly. There’s no way he’s going to look for a living, breathing snake just to reward Sherlock for manipulating the ice cream vendor. The dead one’s going to be hard to get already.

“I want my snake,” Sherlock responds. His ice cream is running down his fingers but Sherlock doesn’t seem to care. “By tomorrow.”

Luke huffs. “Can’t we negotiate? It’s not that easy, you know. A later date or—”

“No.” Sherlock licks his ice cream, wrinkles his nose, then, to Greg’s amazement, throws it in the nearest bin. 

“You should have said you didn’t want any.” Greg hands his cone to Luke in order to dig his hands in his pockets and search for the wad of tissues he’d stuffed there earlier. Sherlock luckily doesn’t argue when Greg begins to clean his fingers. “We wouldn’t have forced you to go with us.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Sherlock replies. “Where would you have gone?”

Greg turns to Luke for an answer. Wrong decision. Luke raises his finger and points it at a place Greg is positive, he should never, ever let Sherlock go to.

Sherlock eyes the building critically. Then, he nods and looks at Greg. “I want to go.”

* * *

Mycroft greets them with a small frown on his face. “I’m not responsible for your studies, but I am responsible for my brother’s,” he says, his voice flat, letting Greg know that Mycroft is truly, truly angry with them. He bites his lower lip and holds Sherlock closer to him, as if he can use him as a shield from Mycroft’s fury. No such luck, Greg thinks when he meets Mycroft’s eyes.

“You were gone the whole day. Luckily, Sherlock’s teacher was only a substitute who didn’t know who her students were.” He gently takes Sherlock from him. The kid stirs but doesn’t wake and even nuzzles closer to Mycroft. It leaves Greg feeling empty and exposed. He shoves his hands in his pockets and averts his gaze. Beside him, Luke is completely silent and Greg absolutely hates him for it. 

“Was it worth it?”

“Yup,” Luke blurts out before Greg can say ‘no’. Then again, saying ‘no’ would be lying and Mycroft would be able to tell. 

Mycroft stares at him coldly. “You’re going to get an infection.”

“Liar,” Luke mumbles. He rubs his ear, wincing slightly when he puts too much pressure. Mycroft is right. He will get an infection. The skin around the silver hoop is alarmingly red compared to the rest of the skin of his ear.

Greg pushes Luke away. “Go,” he says, “go and do something for a while. Put something on that.”

Luke pouts but he understands and obeys without further complaint. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Greg quickly says, “I’m sorry. I really, really am sorry. It’s just—I mean, it was only supposed to be ice cream since I got hungry and Luke got hungry and we had no money so we needed Sherlock. And I, uh, made the mistake of asking Luke where to go and Sherlock wanted to see ear piercings and Luke’s always wanted one. So we convinced Sherlock to do his creepy manipulating people thing so Luke could get it. And—and we kind of forgot about the time and Sherlock fell asleep but—but—it was alright since we didn’t—”

“Stop.”

Greg stops.

“You sound ridiculous when you’re nervous.” Mycroft shifts his hold on Sherlock. He eyes Greg strangely. “Do I truly frighten you that much?”

Greg flushes. “You don’t frighten me.”

“I make you nervous.”

“Yes,” Greg admits. There’s no shame in admitting it because older people get nervous around Mycroft so it’s perfectly acceptable for him to act like he’s about to step foot off a ten-storey building. “Sometimes. When you’re doing the whole Big Brother thing. It’s kind of creepy. But it’s you so…er, I don’t know. I’m not doing a very good job in getting out of trouble.”

To Greg’s surprise, Mycroft actually smiles at him. It’s a small smile but it’s a smile nonetheless and Greg finds himself grinning back. Mycroft’s eyes drop to his mouth. “They’re not stupid,” he says. “They make you look interesting.”

“Is that a euphemism for ugly?” Greg jokes. 

“If you think it then yes, I suppose. But I assure you, they really don’t look stupid.”

“Am I out of trouble?” Greg asks as he walks after him. Luke’s standing near the gate, waiting for them both with his and Greg’s bags slung over one shoulder. 

“No,” Mycroft tells him.

It sounds like a lie.


	5. Look Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set one year later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole chapter is in Mycroft's voice which, as you might have noticed, is always serious compared to Greg's and Luke's.

“Don’t.” 

His face is red and he’s squinting, blinking hard. Mycroft estimates that in five seconds, Luke will burst into tears, the way he always does when he’s furious and upset. It shouldn’t be mistaken as a sign of weakness. One look at his clenched fists tells Mycroft that if he’s not careful, Luke won’t hesitate to punch him. _Hard._

Mycroft’s eyes drop to the wet tiles. One of Luke’s textbooks has flown out of his bag and is currently lying in the middle of the growing puddle. He doesn’t look at Luke as he picks it up and pries it open. Soaked beyond repair but it’s not important, judging from the smoothness and stiffness of the spine. He can always borrow from Greg, anyway.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he says, “they did that to me as well. They do that to everyone. It’s a mindless form of tradition. Better if you don’t fight back, really.”

“At least the janitor just finished up here, eh?” Luke retorts cheerlessly. He steps past Mycroft, turns on the tap, and plunges his already-drenched head under the water. Mycroft studies his back, sees him shaking even harder, and quickly deduces that the five seconds have gone by. He stuffs the textbook inside Luke’s bag but he doesn’t pick it up from the floor, knowing just how much Luke will hate the gesture. He’s easy to read, Luke. He doesn’t want pity, isn’t used to getting it, and he definitely won’t appreciate it if it comes from Mycroft. To be frank, Mycroft would leave him alone but Greg asked him to look out for him.

“You know how he is,” Greg said. “He can’t tell his arse from his head.” He placed a hand on Mycroft’s arm, tightening his grip as if he was making sure Mycroft was there, listening. “Please? Will you do this for me?” And Mycroft didn’t—couldn’t—say no to him. 

He’s finding it harder and harder to say no to Greg. Which isn’t a good thing because Greg is almost as bad as Luke when left to his own devices. But at least they’re separate now which means the teachers can finally relax.

Which means more work for Mycroft.

The tap stops running. The only noise in the room is Luke’s heavy breathing, still uneven but calmer now, meaning he’s finally stopped crying. Mycroft takes it as a sign to look. His eyes meet Luke’s through the mirror. “If you tell Greg—” he starts.

“I won’t. But I do mean it—do not fight back. You’ll only make it worse for yourself.”

Luke stares at him challengingly. Finally, he moves away from the sink, snatches his bag, then walks out of the room, slamming the door shut as he goes. Mycroft sighs. Eight hours of their first day back and Luke’s already landed himself into trouble. Really, Greg’s patience is impeccable.

* * *

Greg’s smile drops when he takes note of the empty space at Mycroft’s side where Luke should be. His fingers curl around the chain-link fence as he stands on his toes to look over Mycroft’s shoulder. “He’s not dead, is he?” Greg jokes, an underlying trace of worry in his voice. 

“Sulking,” Mycroft answers. Well, technically he’s not telling Greg the details so it’s not exactly breaking his promise to Luke. Greg will find out anyway because as much as Luke hates being picked on, he craves the attention, and what happened will certainly be a story the two of them will laugh at when they’re older. “I take it you’re doing well.”

Greg shrugs. “It’s alright. A bit boring, though.”

Mycroft scans him quickly. Not lying, he thinks, relieved. Greg raises an eyebrow at him, smiling slightly so that Mycroft can only see a glimpse of his braces. “Worried?” he teases. It makes Mycroft pause. He’s worried, alright, but you don’t admit to people that you’re worried about them because they’ll only do things to make you worry more. He thinks of a reply.

“It’s my job,” he says, settling for a fact. 

Greg’s brows furrow and something, something that Mycroft doesn’t like, passes over his face. “Right,” he mutters, sounding hollow. 

“Greg?”

“Hmm? Oh, it’s nothing, just tired, you know?” He laughs but it still sounds wrong. “Been playing all night. Practicing, I mean, I still can’t play shit.” He lifts up his hand to show Mycroft the broken skin around his fingers, waggles his fingers playfully. “Getting better, though.”

Mycroft looks at the damaged skin and inevitably thinks of Sherlock. “I’d like to see that. Hear you play, I mean,” he says doubtfully, remembering the last time Greg made him listen to his records. Greg chuckles at what he sees on his face. 

“Not going to force you to, don’t worry.” He stands there awkwardly for a moment, keeping his head bowed so that Mycroft can’t read his face. He should be easy to read since he’s just a less volatile version of Luke but Mycroft finds that there are layers to Greg Lestrade that he hasn’t seen yet. _What is it this time?_ But they don’t ask questions. He’s sure he’ll find out sooner or later. He may not be easy to read sometimes but Greg’s not a big keeper of secrets, either.

He straightens himself, smiles again, then says, “Listen, I have to go. Just, um, thanks, I guess. For looking out for him.” The smile falters. “You know, even though it’s not your job.”

* * *

“Don’t.”

Mycroft looks away for a moment but it’s hard, so he gives up on politeness and just stares. Luke can’t see him from his position but he tenses and growls, “Laugh and I’ll kill you.”

“I’m not going to laugh,” Mycroft answers because he’s not stupid, he’s not going to laugh at this. “But I did warn you not to fight back.”

“Fuck your warnings,” Luke mutters vehemently. Mycroft has to admire his determination to seem intimidating. It’s not an easy thing to do, especially when you’re facing the wall with the tip of your nose pressed against a small, badly-drawn x. He turns his head, notices the empty desk, then steps back, enough for Mycroft to see his face. His left eye is already starting to swell shut and there’s dried blood on his top lip but he’s grinning like a wolf. “You should have seen what I did to the others guys. Idiots. They can’t mess with me.”

“This isn’t going to stop,” Mycroft tells him. 

“Did I say that I want it to?”

“Greg doesn’t want you fighting.”

Luke groans. “He’s not my keeper. I’m his keeper. Technically, anyway.”

“You don’t do a very good job.”

And that’s it. Luke’s expression darkens. “You would know all about jobs, wouldn’t you, Mycroft?” he says goadingly. Mycroft searches his expression. This obviously has something to do with Greg, but Luke narrows his eyes at him and Mycroft immediately stops. Luke’s not going to tell him now. He will, probably. He’s got a big mouth and despite his loyalty to Greg, he’ll eventually say what it is. Not now, though. 

They hear footsteps. Luke freezes. “You ought to get back to your punishment,” Mycroft tells him. He’s about to step out but Luke calls his name, stopping him at the threshold.

“I hate you,” Luke says, “But that’s not a big secret, huh? I don’t know why, but—Look, just remember what I told you, alright? Then maybe I can get over the fact that you’re a posh git.”

“You’ve said a lot of things to me, none of them good.”

“Yeah, well, the ones with substance. Review them.”

* * *

“It’s a simple enough tune, boy, so stop making a racket and learn the piece properly!” Father snaps, slamming his glass on the table forcefully. For a moment, Mycroft fears that he may have broken it, but when Father relinquishes his hold, he sees that it’s perfectly fine. 

Sherlock’s standing in the middle of the room, staring at his feet and looking so unsure of himself that Mycroft has to swallow the wince threatening to escape from his mouth. He’s done nothing this time, has even made the effort to be good for once, but Father’s been stuck in one of his black moods for weeks. Mycroft thinks of the little bottle of pills stashed in their medicine cabinet. The last time he looked, there were six. He thinks—knows rather—that there will still be six when he checks it again.

Father clicks his tongue disapprovingly, staring Sherlock down. Mycroft desperately wants to leap out of his chair and hold Sherlock close, shield him from Father’s gaze. He doesn’t. It will be worse if he interferes.

“I want that perfect by tomorrow night, understand?” When Sherlock doesn’t reply, Father gets up and grabs his chin, forcing him to look at him. “Understand, Sherlock?” he grits out.

For a second, defiance flashes in Sherlock’s eyes but it fades soon enough. He mutters a shaky yes. Father lets him go. As soon as he’s out the door, Sherlock hurls the bow at the floor, the violin almost following suit if not for Mycroft’s interference. He gently pries the instrument out of Sherlock’s hands and lays it on the table before going back to Sherlock. “Hush, don’t cry,” he says comfortingly. “You were good.”

Mycroft feels guilty that he secretly cherishes these moments because this is one of the few times when Sherlock acts his age. It’s not good, definitely isn’t very big-brother like, but Sherlock’s usually so abrasive. It’s nice, from time to time, to feel that Sherlock still needs him. Still, this doesn’t mean Mycroft wants Sherlock to suffer. It’s heart breaking to see him like this. Sherlock’s covering his face, trying to hide his tears, but he doesn’t resist when Mycroft wraps his arms around him. “You have to understand, Sherlock,” Mycroft whispers, still in the same soothing tone. He’s shaking like a leaf against Mycroft, his wet face pressed against the crook of his neck. “Father is sick, remember? Sometimes he can’t control himself. You have to be patient with him and you have to learn not to fight back.”

Sherlock’s mumbling something but his speech is too garbled for Mycroft to make out anything. It’s probably nonsense anyway. “Stop crying, you’ll make yourself ill,” Mycroft tries but Sherlock refuses to calm down. “Sherlock, calm yourself, alright? I’ll take you to your room.”

Sherlock mumbles something again. Two words. “What?” Mycroft asks. “What do you want?”

Sherlock sniffs. “Want Greg,” he repeats.

“No.” 

He’s not even thinking about it but he finds himself saying no, anyway. He won’t deny Sherlock anything that can’t harm him, especially things that will help him, but he can’t give Sherlock this. Mycroft knows Greg’s presence will calm Sherlock. If Mummy were here…But she’s not. They seldom stay in the same place for a long period of time, his mother and father. 

He can’t invite Greg here now, not when Father’s around, acting like this, and not when Sherlock’s in hysterics. “No, Sherlock,” he says again, hating it, hating himself when disappointment flashes in Sherlock’s face. 

Coward. But Sherlock doesn’t say it even though Mycroft can tell that he wants to. The moment is gone and Sherlock slumps his shoulders, defeated.

He should have said it.

* * *

“Don’t.”

He doesn’t say it out loud so Greg asks anyway. “Something wrong?” He’s looking at Mycroft carefully. Mycroft’s not looking at him but he can see him staring at him through his peripheral vision, can feel Greg’s eyes boring into him.

“It’s just,” Greg continues, “you’ve been awfully quiet since I got here.” He pulls off his scarf and lays it on the table. His fingers are bandaged. He’s proud about them, though, wouldn’t be wearing those fingerless gloves if he wasn’t. Been playing all night, too much. One of his hands lifts from the table to rest on Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft sniffs, smelling the faint traces of blood and iodine from his hand.

“Stop reading me,” Greg tells him. “I asked you a question.”

Mycroft snaps back to the present. “Nothing’s wrong,” he lies, moving away so that the table’s between them. “Would you like a drink?”

“Coffee,” Greg says automatically, still staring at him. 

“You shouldn’t be drinking that.”

Greg’s answer is a shrug. Don’t, Mycroft thinks, but Greg’s not stupid. He’s already abandoned his post and is now moving about, looking at the kitchen as if he’s trying to find something important. Mycroft turns on the coffee maker, keeping his back to Greg.

“Where’s Sherlock?”

“In his bedroom. He’s ill.”

Greg’s stopped walking. “Can I see him?”

“You don’t want to catch what he has.”

“I don’t get sick easily.”

“He shouldn’t be disturbed.”

“I can help make him better. Biology and all that crap.”

“He’s asleep.”

“Where are your parents, by the way? I haven’t seen them since Tuesday.”

“Mummy’s in France. Father’s working.”

The first is the truth. The second is a lie. Mycroft pours the coffee in a mug, nearly spilling it when he recalls last night’s conversation. He’d checked and he was right. Father wasn’t taking his medication. As soon as everyone was asleep he called his uncle. Most likely, Father is in the hospital right now with his brother heightening his dosage of lithium tablets. Mycroft wonders what his uncle thinks about their father. If he’s afraid of him or if he’s afraid _for_ him.

Mycroft wonders if he even thinks of him as someone other than a patient.

A bit of coffee slops from the mug and hits the toe of Mycroft’s shoe. Greg notices the slip and doesn’t let go of it. “Who’s looking after you?” he asks cautiously.

“Greg,” Mycroft says, exasperated. He can feel a headache forming. “Leave it.”

Greg clamps his mouth shut. When Mycroft turns to face him, Greg has his arms folded across his chest, his expression guarded. Mycroft hands him the mug unceremoniously. “You should tell the truth for once,” Greg mutters and somehow Mycroft just loses it.

“You should stop interfering with my life,” he snaps and it’s so childish that Mycroft feels like he’s turned into Sherlock because it’s something only his brother would say. It’s childish and stupid but it must hurt Greg because his eyes widen. Mycroft doesn’t regret things because he always thinks twice before doing something, but he regrets this now. 

“Greg,” he starts but he stops, stuck, unsure of what to say. He did mean it but at the same time he doesn’t and it’s so confusing that all he can do is stand there and stare at Greg. He should say sorry but he can’t bring himself to do so.

“Sorry,” Greg says. It doesn’t sound like he’s apologising. He’s glaring at the mug in his hands instead of glaring at Mycroft and somehow, that seems worse. “I _thought_ we were friends. Stupid of me to make that mistake.”

Mycroft feels uncomfortable. He doesn’t quite know what to do and it’s so foreign a feeling that he has to think for a long time before he can respond. “We are,” he says, settling for something simple, for something true. But Greg’s face tells him he isn’t buying it.

Greg sets the mug down, stares at him. “You’re a really good liar, Mycroft.”

* * *

Luke punches him.

Luke has punched him before. It’s ingrained in his very being, to punch things to enjoy himself, to defend himself, and just for the sake of punching something. But he’s never punched Mycroft while truly meaning it so it’s never hurt until now. 

He’s not only punching. He’s gone wild, has knocked Mycroft off his feet and is in the process of strangling him. Thankfully, Mycroft’s not weak. He doesn’t fight back but he manages to roll them so that Luke’s under him, his arms pinned behind his back. “What?” Mycroft gasps, “is the matter with you?”

Luke struggles like a wild animal, twisting his head to bite Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft shifts his hold and slams Luke’s head down, applying pressure until Luke gets the message and slowly, slowly calms down. The sound of people laughing distracts Mycroft, long enough for Luke to push him off. They wait but no one enters the classroom.

Luke’s breathing heavily, still glaring at Mycroft. He has blood on his hands but it’s not his. Mycroft touches his split lip gingerly. His mouth is flooded with the taste of blood but Luke wasn’t able knock a tooth loose. The inside of his cheek, however, needs to be checked.

“I warned you, didn’t I?” Luke growls. He doesn’t make a move to tackle Mycroft. Must be tired, Mycroft thinks. One look at him and Mycroft already knows that he’s not the first person Luke’s fought with today. “I told you that if you hurt Greg, I’ll fucking kill you.”

“I’m still alive.”

“Want me to correct my mistake?” Luke counters. He tries to stand up and fails, dropping to his arse hard. 

“You don’t have the energy for that.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Luke mumbles. He lies back, arms and legs spread like he’s about to make a snow angel. Mycroft pokes his tongue at the cut in his cheek, wincing when pain shoots through his face. It makes him cough and spit out blood. Luke stares at him lazily, seemingly satisfied.

“Happy?”

“Quite.” He looks at the ceiling and heaves a great sigh. “He fancies you, you know?”

Mycroft stares at him disbelievingly.

“Doesn’t say it but I can tell. It just started this month, I think. I don’t think he realises either. The way he looks at you. Jesus, it’s disgusting.” Luke rolls to his side so that he’s facing Mycroft. “And as much as the idea gives me the creeps, he’s my cousin. Whatever makes him happy, I guess.”

“Um,” Mycroft says. It is odd. He knows that they’re supposed to be together, him and Greg, but he also knows that not all bonds have to have a romantic component to them. He sees it more as a duty. Emotions, love, can be horribly distracting. “I think…I think I would know.”

“You’ve been ignoring it.” Luke sits up. “Holmes, think about it. Why do you think he’s acting all weird? And don’t say puberty because I’ve just been to another sex ed class today and let me tell you, I am seriously sick of that word.”

Mycroft doesn’t answer. Silence is a good response. “I just want you to say sorry, alright?” Luke says as he gets up. “He’s been sulking all day and it doesn’t suit him.”

“I—Thank you. For telling me.”

Luke cocks his head to one side, studying him. “You’re still a posh git,” he says but there’s no venom to his words, and for a moment, just for a moment, he actually smiles at Mycroft sincerely.

* * *

“Don’t.”

Greg’s eyes are closed. Mycroft steps back and Greg opens his eyes. “Don’t,” he says again and Mycroft removes his hands from Greg’s shoulders.

“You could just say sorry,” Greg tells him. “You shouldn’t kiss me.”

“Why not? It’s what you want.”

Greg flushes but he doesn’t avert his gaze. “It’s not what _you_ want,” he says. Mycroft’s silence confirms it, and while there’s disappointment in Greg’s face, there’s also acceptance. “I don’t know what Luke’s been telling you, but—not if you don’t want it. I’m not a job, My.”

“I’m terribly sorry.” _I’m sorry for telling you that, I’m sorry for giving you the wrong impression, I’m sorry for not liking you back._ He doesn’t say these things out loud. Greg gets it. 

“It’s just a stupid crush,” Greg mutters. “It will go away, eventually.” Greg gives him a crooked smile. Mycroft does like him, but in a brotherly way. Not in that way, though. He stares at Greg’s face and thinks that while it will be horribly inconvenient, it won’t be bad. It’s not impossible to like Greg back.

“Okay.”

“I just wish you’d tell me things.” Greg looks away. He scratches the back of his neck, a habit of his when he's nervous. “I don’t keep secrets from you and I don’t like it. When you lie to me.”

Mycroft sighs. It will be hard, but he can’t keep things from Greg forever.

He sets his hands on Greg’s shoulders, forces him to look at him. He takes a deep breath, waits. No going back once he says it. But Greg’s looking at him with a slightly hopeful expression and he really doesn’t want to lose Greg because of this.

He can't force himself to like him back like that. But he can give him this.

“What do you want to know?”


	6. The Likely Lads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for underage drinking and smoking and a lot of swearing.

He shouldn’t like Mycroft because Mycroft is so different from them. He’s not like Luke who likes to get into trouble and he’s not like Chuck who likes to play music so loud it threatens to give them permanent ear damage. He’s too controlled, too posh, and really, he’s the kind of person Greg and his friends make fun of because Mycroft’s kind, they’re almost nonhuman. He’s one of those people the teachers love, the ones who actually want to make you feel comfortable school, the ones who greet you with the same brochure-worthy smile on your first day, and the ones who get bullied all the time.

Greg knows that he should like people like Cassie Mayhew who’s fond of riling up their teachers. People like Anya Hinson and Paul Lucca who have bad reps in school, who earned their bad reputations. He should like people like Johnny Rotten, like Joey Ramone.

But what _should_ happen doesn’t. 

It just happens. One moment Mycroft’s his weird, omniscient-old self and the next, well, when he puts his hand on Greg’s shoulder to be exact, Greg gets this weird feeling that makes him extra self-conscious and very, very aware of Mycroft’s hand on his shoulder and Mycroft’s proximity to him and—Okay, it just makes him very aware of Mycroft, alright? It also makes him very aware of the spots on his face and Mycroft’s spots and really, really, people shouldn’t think about spots. Who the fuck invented puberty anyway? 

There’s a growl in his ear, a warning, but Greg responds too late and is tackled to the ground. “OUCH!” He kicks his perpetrator, his foot landing squarely on Chuck’s groin. “That fucking hurt, you git!”

“It’s—rugby—” Chuck gasps, rolling away from Greg, his hands pressed to the front of his shorts. “Pay—attention!” 

Luke runs up to them, the ball in his hand and looking far too muddy for his own good. “No more babies for you!” he yells cheerfully at Chuck and, to Greg’s amusement, throws the ball down and throws himself at their friend. Greg tries to get up before he gets caught in the fray but Chuck holds him tightly. Somehow he ends up underneath the two of them. 

“Can’t breathe!”

“You deserve it.” Chuck’s arse is on his face, smelling of mud and grass and sweat and, well, arse, Greg supposes.

“I’m serious!” Greg says. He squirms until they finally roll off him. “Yuck.” He wipes his face with the hem of his shirt. “You two are disgusting.”

“Serves you right for possibly destroying my manhood. See.” Chuck slides his thumbs in the waistband of his shorts and yanks them down to his knees, his pants following. They’re in the field and it’s already dark out but people can still see. Then again, modesty doesn’t really apply to them. 

Luke hoots upon seeing the damage. That will bruise in the morning, Greg thinks. “Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t really mean it. “You caught me off-guard.”

Luke eyes him sharply. He raises an eyebrow. _Thinking about him again?_

Greg rolls his eyes at him, feeling himself blush. _Shut up._

Chuck pulls his shorts back up and scowls at the two of them. “Can you two not do that whole telepathy thing when I’m here? It makes me feel left out.”

“We could teach you,” Luke says. “It’s easy.”

“As if that will _work_.”

It won’t. They’ve done it before, tried to teach someone to catch up with them, but all attempts failed. It would be easier if they were twins so they won’t have to explain it, but they’re not, at least, not when it comes to biology. They’re just really close; they look out for each other all the time. It’s the reason why they’re each other’s best friends. It’s not like they’re antisocial. They have a respectable number of friends thanks to the pranks they pull, but when it comes to the other things, things that involve talking seriously, they’re all they’ve got.

Chuck huffs but he doesn’t say anything else. That’s what Greg likes about Chuck. The others, they get furious when they’re left out, but Chuck accepts it. “You owe me for my dick,” Chuck tells him. He picks up the ball, tries to wipe the mud off the grass, and of course, fails to clean it. “Fuck. Ah well, I’ll just clean it at home. Tomorrow, alright? Don’t get into any trouble.”

“Yeah, sure.” Luke grabs him by the scruff of his neck and yanks him to his feet. He’s muddy and he stinks of sweat but Greg doesn’t remove the arm Luke throws over his shoulders. He’s muddy as well, anyway, and besides, Luke will only gripe and lecture him about keeping safe.

“People _look_ at you more,” Luke always says in that voice Greg hates because it makes Luke sound older, much knowledgeable, which definitely isn’t true. “It’s better this way.”

Greg would complain more but it’s true. People do look. That’s all they do, really. Most of the time. The younger ones, the people near Greg’s age just stare or smile at him more. Older people touch him. They pat his head fondly or, on one embarrassing occasion while they were in Tesco, act all old-lady like by pinching his cheeks and telling him he looks adorable. Which he _doesn’t_. Still, the cheek-pinching is better than that one time when they were in train and, well, it didn’t go well. If Greg hadn’t held him back, Luke would have punched the old man. 

“He only offered me candy,” Greg told him. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“He wasn’t offering you any candy I know.” Luke sighed and stared at him disapprovingly. “It’s just…well, you look younger than you should. Baby-faced, you know?”

Greg hit him. He’s not. Just because Luke is taller. It’s not that he’s even short anymore. He’s gotten taller and he’s not the shortest in his class. It’s just that Luke’s always been tall and gangly and will always be tall and gangly in Greg’s opinion.

“You have mud in your ears,” Luke says, still in the same cheerful tone, as they walk home. “And you’ve got blades of grass in your hair.”

“You have mud in your brain,” Greg replies. It gets him a playful but sharp pull to his hair. 

“So how’s, you know, that thing. With Mycroft?” Luke shoots him a pained smile. Greg rolls his eyes once more.

“You don’t have to ask me about it.”

“Yeah, but…We don’t not talk about things. And as much as it pains me, I’m your sentinel and he’s your…whatever.”

Greg scoffs. “He’s not my _whatever_. He’s Mycroft. We’re just friends.”

“Oh come on, Greg. I’m the only one you can talk to about it.”

Greg scowls. Luke’s right, though. Mycroft—he’s too different from them. His friends hate Mycroft, just like Luke, only unlike Luke they really can’t tolerate his presence. They won’t even make an effort. And Greg has to act the part, like he can’t stand Mycroft. He feels a bit guilty but that’s just what he’s expected to do. And it’s not like Mycroft’s not playing his part either. He barely acknowledges Greg when he’s with his friends, won’t even talk to him unless he has to.

Greg’s not sure if he’s even acting or if that’s just the way Mycroft is.

Luke pokes his stomach, dragging him back to the present. “You fancy him, though. Which is really weird but…can’t do anything about that!” Luke salutes and winks at him. “I, Luke Rochewell, fully support this thing with Mycroft despite the fact that it sickens me to the bones since he’s a posh git. But whatever because I love you, bro. I loooove you.” He opens his arms and crushes Greg to his chest.

“Gah! Rapist!”

“I am not. Only sometimes. When people are sleeping.”

“Jesus, get off me, will you?” 

Luke plants a sloppy, messy kiss on the tip of his nose. “Well?” he asks, his eyes eager, expectant. “ _Well?_ ”

“Nothing. We’re not—he’s not—” Greg sighs. He doesn’t want to talk about it because there’s nothing to talk about. Frankly, it’s just confusing and sometimes it hurts because Mycroft will pull away or will tell him that he’s uncomfortable, and somehow, he’ll make it sound like it’s Greg’s fault. As if Greg’s ever agreed to this. “We’re not like that, alright? Besides, this _thing_ will blow over. It’s just this—this _puberty_ shit. Getting to me.”

“Greg,” Luke says, “wouldn’t it be easier? You’re supposed to spend the rest of your life with him. I’d rather have you be in love with the guy than be formal with him in a bond.”

Greg punches his shoulder. “Why are you getting so mushy all of a sudden?”

“Will you believe me if I tell you I’ve watched too much of _The Revenge of Maria Ramona_?”

Greg snorts. “Yeah, right. Soap operas aren’t really your thing.”

“They’re _yours._ ”

“Say that again and I’ll stick mud down your throat.”

“Naomi’s getting a divorce,” Luke says in a tone which he thinks is casual but which Greg hears differently. They’re not close, Luke and Naomi, but the thing is, you look out for your brother or sister even when you feel like they deserve to live in the pit of hell. It was a shotgun wedding, then a miscarriage, then depression, and now this. _I’d kill the guy._ Greg can read Luke’s thoughts just by looking at his face any time. He can also tell when he means it and right now, Luke means it. Doesn’t mean he’s going to act on it, though.

“Ah.”

“I don’t want you to go through that,” Luke admits. “It’s messy and it’s tiring and there’s so much shouting.” 

“You know,” Greg says, choosing his words carefully, “this pre-bond with Mycroft, it’s just for us to get to know each other. I mean, I can always reject him once I turn twenty-one. Or he can reject me. Which I think he will. Or won’t since his Father wants us to and, well, you know Mycroft.”

“You have a choice,” Luke reminds him. They stare at each other, for a moment, quite aware that they’re no longer children, that things have changed and it’s stranger now, harder, because there are expectations they have to meet. Luke brings his hand to his mouth and chews at his thumbnail nervously.

“Can we not talk about this?” Greg asks. Pleads. “Now? Or ever for that matter. This being serious thing—it doesn’t suit us. Makes me feel old.”

Luke laughs and he’s back to his old self. “Right, right. Fuck, we’ve been out in the sun for too long, eh? Best go back to being Tweedledee and Tweedledum. “

He ruffles his hair fondly, making Greg laugh. It’s alright, he thinks. This growing up and getting serious thing, as long as he’s got Luke to make things amusing.

* * *

Greg doesn’t like being serious but it doesn’t mean that he can’t be when the situation calls for it. He’s not Luke which is a mistake so many people make. He’s got manners for one thing and he knows when to keep his mouth shut. He has, in short, a sense of shame just like anyone else.

Thank the gods Luke doesn’t fit in the category of normal.

The door slams open and Luke, with his hair gelled back and with the top button of his shirt left undone, strides in with—to Greg’s horror—a large bouquet of flowers. “Madame Darlington!” he cries dramatically, drawing even more attention to him. As if that were possible. Greg shuts his eyes, opens them again. He’s not dreaming. “Your knight in not-shining-armour has arrived!”

Mrs Darlington purses her lips and gives Luke the Death Glare. Luke’s immune to it, probably because he doesn’t care if he gets into trouble or not. Greg has to hand it to him. He can barely look at Mrs Darlington who, with her cold stare, hundred-something old face, and that disturbingly large mole near her nose, embodies the very definition of the word ‘nightmare’. But Luke’s smiling at her now, beaming at her beatifically, adoringly. Greg bites his lip and tries very hard not to laugh.

“You’re not in detention, Mr Rochewell,” Mrs Darlington grunts. “But I could easily add you to the list.”

“Oh there’s no need to do that, my beloved.” Luke winks at her lasciviously. “You don’t have to make up a reason for me to stay with you. People will talk but _we should let them_. Our love is far too beautiful a thing to stay hidden from the eyes of God and men.”

Luke turns his head, enough for Greg to catch his eye. He waggles his eyebrows playfully. _Go. I’ll distract her._

Greg huffs. _You’re fucking mental._

“Shouldn’t you be in your own building, Mr Rochewell? Instead of standing here, torturing me with your insipid babbling?”

“Such _lovely_ words. Please, tell me more. My ears are just desperate to hear the sound of your voice.” 

Luke steps in front of her desk, blocking her view, and Greg takes it as his cue to slide out of his seat and slowly make his way to the window. Gemma Witte smirks at him when he passes by her table. “Careful,” she whispers.

“I would write you a poem, Mrs Darlington, but alas! My writing skills are non-existent so I will borrow the tongue of a great poet to further adore your radiance.” Greg looks back and sees that Luke is now sitting on the desk, a crumpled sheet of paper in his hands. “Listen! ‘You must know that I do not love and I love you,/because everything alive has its two sides;/a word is one wing of the silence,/fire has its cold half./I love you in order to begin to love you,/to start infinity again/and never to stop loving you:/that's why I do not love you yet./I love you, and I do not love you, as if I held/keys in my hand: to a future of joy - /a wretched, muddled fate - /My love has two lives, in order to love you:/that's why I love you when I do not love you,/and also why I love you when I do.’” 

Luke stops, turns to look at him, and grins when he sees that Greg’s already climbed out the window and is standing on the ledge. “Are you _more_ in love with me now, Mrs Darlington?” he asks, not dropping the act for one second.

“Mr Rochewell, that looks like it’s been ripped from a book from the school library.”

“Your eyes are deceiving you, my sweet buttercup.” He slides off the desk. “I suggest you let these unfortunate beings go home early so that you can get your rest. You have flaws, but my love for you knows no bounds. Here are flowers to match your beauty, you gorgeous thing.”

Oh god, Greg thinks, laughing a bit. He’s really going to have to pay Luke back for this.

Greg slides the window shut carefully and slowly, slowly makes his way to the southern wing of the building. _Don’t look down, just don’t look down and you’ll be fine_. He’s done this before so distance doesn’t really matter, but it rained recently. The ledge is slippery and if he’s not careful…Well, a thirty-foot drop’s not something you can easily survive.

He stops and drops from the ledge and onto the kitchen roof. “Shit shit shit!” he swears when he nearly slides all the way down. The gutter stops him from falling. It creaks dangerously under his feet, a long, low sound that makes his stomach twinge. Greg waits, breathing deeply, but nothing happens. He sighs, relieved. “I’m never going to do this again.”

“I find that hard to believe,” someone yells. Greg leans over the edge and sees that Chuck’s already waiting for him. “Next time, try not to get caught when you’re pranking the older guys.”

“You didn’t even join,” Greg counters.

“Because I specifically told you two not to cause trouble today!”

“Couldn’t help it,” Greg admits. It’s not an illness. He can live a day without pulling a fast one on some unfortunate being. But there are people who deserve it on a daily basis, and Luke _just happened_ to have a lighter with him, and the smoke detector _just happened_ to be there. It was practically blasphemy not to do it.

“Where’s Luke?”

“Right here!” The leaves of the tree nearest to Greg rustles and Luke’s face pops out, leaves clinging to his ridiculously made-up hair. “Told you, I’d beat you.”

“We weren’t racing,” Greg reminds him. He leans over some more so that Luke can pull him towards him. “At least, I didn’t have to flirt with the old hag.”

“It was a glorious experience!” Luke protests. “Say that again and I’ll wash your mouth with soap. You’re insulting the love of my life.”

“Seriously, Luke, drop the act.”

“What act?”

“ _Luke_.”

“Fine. Wouldn’t want to damage your virgin ears anyway.” He climbs down, Greg following. “So,” Luke says, clapping his hands together. “What are we going to do again?”

“We’re going to Alexia Carter’s party, remember?”

“That bint your brother’s seeing?”

Chuck rolls his eyes. “She’s not a bint, Greg.”

“Only sometimes,” Greg mutters under his breath, making Luke giggle.

“We should stop at my house first. Better get out of these uniforms.”

Greg snorts. “You just want to see me naked.”

“Oh, darling, I’ve seen everything,” Chuck answers sarcastically. “Besides, that would be cheating on Luke-y here.”

“Yeah, Greg. Fuck off. Messing with our relationship, breaking the children’s hearts. You’re a menace, cousin dear.”

“What can I say? I have an excellent tutor.”

“A goddamn sexy tutor.”

“With no brain to speak of,” Greg adds, smiling charmingly at Luke who scowls at him. 

“Alright, stop it,” Chuck says. “We’re going to my house and you two are going to act civil.” He looks at his watch. “At least for the next forty-five minutes.”

* * *

“Is this necessary?” Greg coughs, his eyes watering. “I smell awful.”

“As long as you don’t smell like yourself,” Chuck tells him. He stops, mid-spritz, then takes a deep sniff, coughing just as much as Greg. Still, he eyes him sceptically. “Wow, that’s strong. I’m going to cough a lung. Oi, Luke, smell him, will you?”

Luke sniffs him, making little snuffling noises that sound like noises something small and furry would make. “You smell like my dad,” Luke says frankly, fingers loosening their grip on the back of his neck. “But no trace of your second gender. Nor do you smell of Mycroft. Which is good, really. Wouldn’t want people to think you’re too posh for them.”

“So what the fuck am I? A human-shaped cologne?”

“A Beta with a phobia of body odour,” Chuck fills in. 

“A burner of eyebrows and other unwanted body hairs,” Luke adds. 

Greg glares at them both. “I’m changing clothes.”

“No time!” Chuck opens his closet and takes out a very battered leather jacket that smells like it’s made out of cigarettes. “My brother’s old one,” Chuck explains. “Better to smell like smoke, right?”

Greg puts it on. It’s soft and comfortable but it’s a bit too big and makes him feel a bit like he’s swimming in clothes. Still, it dilutes the smell of cologne. And it looks nice. He pulls one sleeve over his hand, slips his thumb in a hole that looks as if it was made with a knife. 

“Dad’s going to kill us,” he tells Luke, “if we get caught.”

“We’re not.” Luke doesn’t sound convincing, doesn’t look it either. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, biting his lower lip. “Our parents won’t be back ‘til next week and Gran’s going senile. She’s not going to notice that we’re gone. I mean, she tried to feed you _catfood_.”

“Gran’s not crazy. I broke her glasses that time.”

“You’re not a bloody cat, Greg. And besides, do you really want to miss this?”

“Yeah,” Chuck says. “Brandon’s already doing us a huge favour by inviting us. I mean, we’re only thirteen. And we’re going there. Besides, there’s adult supervision. We can always blame Brandon.”

Greg thinks about it. “No,” he admits. “You’re right. It’s a onetime opportunity.” 

Luke ruffles his hair. “Just stick to me and you—we—will be fine.”

“Why am I suddenly filled with doubts?”

“Oh, you wound me. Evil boy.” Luke pinches his cheek then forces him to look at the mirror. “Thirteen my arse. You look two—three years older.”

Greg blinks. He looks weird. Different, but not bad weird. Maybe it’s because he’s in Brandon’s clothes. Luke ruffles his hair even more then stands beside him, one arm slung over his shoulders. He blinks as well, as if he’s seeing Greg for the first time. “Wow. You’ve gotten taller.”

Greg looks, startled to see that he’s almost up to Luke’s ear. 

“Huh. You’re right.”

* * *

“And then he said, he said _lemons_ , and it was just—just fuck fuck fuck oh my fucking god. No shit, man, _lemons_. It was, it was the most amazing thing ever.” Luke knocks his chest, his drink sloshing down Greg’s shirt. “FUCKING AMAZING MAN FUCKING FUCKING AMAZING.”

Greg doesn’t respond. He’s drunk. At least, he _thinks_ he’s drunk. He’s not sure. He’s never been drunk before, never had beer before, either. Greg peers at the empty red cup in his hand. “I’m out,” he says. It’s not funny but Chuck’s brother and Chuck’s brother’s friends laugh hysterically. Chuck himself is already asleep, curled at his brother’s side, and they’ve only seen two bands play. Greg blinks blearily, his eyes widening when he sees that the cup in his hand is already filled to the brim with alcohol.

“I think,” he says slowly. His tongue feels heavy, a bit like a wet sponge in his mouth. Is this what being drunk is supposed to feel like? It doesn’t feel too good. “I think I shouldn’t…Uh. Um…Drink again.”

Brandon laughs again, blowing smoke all over his face. He’s cool, Brandon. He doesn’t bully them and he finds Greg and Luke’s pranks funny. His philosophy is to enjoy yourself while you’re young so that you won’t regret it when you’re older which is something Greg fully believes in. Brandon’s the older brother Greg wants and will never have. But that’s alright, he’s got Luke. 

“Drink all you want, kid. How old are you now? Thirteen, right? It’s alright. Don’t sweat, I can drive you home. Just enjoy yourself.”

Greg peers at the little white stick in Brandon’s mouth. “Want to try?” Brandon asks and before Greg can respond, he’s already fitting the cigarette in Greg’s mouth. “Careful, careful,” Brandon coaxes but Greg does it too quickly. He coughs, the cigarette flying from his mouth.

“Shit. Sorry.” He spits. “Tastes awful.”

“Nah, it went down the wrong pipe. Tastes good once you get used to it.” He turns to Luke. “How about you Lucas? Want a try?”

“Who the fuck is Lucas?” Luke mutters. He’s nearly cross-eyed which is weird since Greg is certain he’s had more to drink than Luke. Maybe his alcohol tolerance is higher. “Gimme, gimme!”

Brandon lights him a new one. 

“ _Blech!_ ”

They laugh and Greg tries to smile but he finds that he can’t do it. He’s no longer enjoying their company. It must be the alcohol. He feels a bit sick, to be honest, and he desperately needs to take a piss. He looks at his cup once more then sets it on the table which is littered with empty cups and cigarette butts. “I need…” He pauses, searches for the right word. “Loo. Need it.”

“Er, somewhere there.” Brandon points past a couple of teenagers snogging on the couch. “Hurry up, okay? Next band will perform in two minutes.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Greg zips up Brandon’s jacket then makes his way to the loo, stepping over people, a majority of them in their teens or early twenties. Greg notices that they’re the only ones below sixteen, but for some reason, he doesn’t find it appealing anymore. He feels…weird. A small part of his brain, the not-drunk one, is telling him that maybe he’s just the second type of drunk, the sad bloke at the corner of the bar, drinking his life away. Luke’s clearly the happy drunk, the one who tells stupid stories, while Chuck’s the sleeper who misses out all the fun and becomes the subject of all sorts of embarrassing photographs. 

His brain’s also telling him that he’s shit scared but that’s not something he wants to dwell on, because if he does, he’ll panic and everyone will know just how scared he actually is.

The bathroom must be soundproof because the noise level drops as soon as Greg closes the door behind him. He turns around and gets the shock of his life when he sees a girl around Brandon’s age, leaning over the sink, her back to him. “Um,” he starts, “I should go, right?”

She straightens then eyes him blearily. Greg’s eyes drop to the white powder on the sink.

“Right I’ll just go,” he says, opening the door and stepping out, his bladder be damned. He bites his lip and wonders if he should tell Brandon that someone’s sniffing cocaine in his girlfriend’s bathroom. Then again, it feels like Brandon won’t really care.

Two hours later, his head is pounding and all Greg wants to do is lie on a soft surface and sleep for a hundred years. He rubs his face and leans against Luke who looks like he’s gone into a catatonic state. “I’m drunk,” Greg moans. “I’m really, really, really drunk.”

“I’m not. I think. I’m not?”

“You are. We’re both drunk and we’re going to die. You smell like the back of a bar.”

“Go home?” Luke suggests and Greg whimpers a ‘yes’ against his neck.

“Okay.” Luke stands up then sits back down again. “Huh. Ugh, how do I do this?”

“Brandon.”

“Not here. We’re on our own.” 

“Ngh…”

There’s a soft slap to his face. “Hey,” Luke says. “Wake up.”

“Tired.”

“Hey, look at me.”

Greg tries but it’s hard. His eyelids feel heavy. It makes him laugh. Eyelids. Heavy. They’re fucking eyelids, they’re not supposed to feel like anything. He cracks one eye open and sees Luke staring at him, suddenly sober. 

“Jesus, how many have you had?”

“Hmmm…eight? Ten? HUNDREDS!”

“I’ve only had four. Jesus fuck, ten?” Luke shakes him. “Greg, snap out of it. Wake up, weirdo—”

The shaking. It’s a big mistake. Greg opens his mouth to tell Luke to stop it but instead of words, he comes up with bile. “Shit!” Luke swears, shoving him away. “You just puked all over my shirt!”

“Sorry,” Greg mumbles. He lies back on the cushions. “Sorry, sorry, don’t feel riiiight.”

“I need to get you home.” Luke brushes his hair back and looks down at him, biting his lip. “Stay here, alright? Don’t move.”

Greg doubts he can, much less stand up. He closes his eyes and waits for sleep to get him.

* * *

Hangovers, Greg finds, are one of the most horrible things a person can experience. This has to be it, this head-pounding, brain-crushing feeling that makes him want to grab his stomach and throw it in the nearest bin, just to make it all stop. Greg rolls onto his side and buries his face in the soft sheets.

Sheets which don’t smell like him.

This isn’t his room. It smells clean for one thing and the bed is far too big. He sniffs. Mycroft’s house, he thinks. He’s in one of the guest rooms in Mycroft’s place. He’s _hungover_ in one of the guest rooms in Mycroft’s place. Which means that it was Mycroft who got them out of Carter’s place. Which also means he’s in a lot of trouble and—

“GREEEEEEG!” 

Greg winces, then growls when the door swings open, bathing him in light. “Fucking hell! Shut the door!” he shouts, without thinking much of it.

“You smell gross,” Sherlock tells him. He climbs on the bed and sits on Greg’s legs. “Go down. Your stupid cousin’s annoying me.”

“Luke’s here?”

Sherlock huffs angrily. “Didn’t you hear me? He’s downstairs with Mycroft.”

“Luke’s _with_ Mycroft?”

“They’re arguing and it’s annoying. Go break it up.” 

Greg shoves him away. “My head’s killing me.”

“There’s some Ibuprofen waiting for you.” Greg looks up to see Sherlock searching Brandon’s jacket. “Can I have this?” he asks, raising a half-empty box of cigarettes. 

“No,” Greg snaps, shuddering at the image of the seven-year-old lighting up. “Give me that.”

“Why? You’re not allowed to smoke.” He pulls one out and sticks it inside his mouth. 

“Sherlock, stop that!” Greg moves, ignoring his headache, and smacks the back of Sherlock’s head, forcing him to spit out the cigarette.

“OW!”

“You made me do it!”

Oh great, Greg thinks. Now Sherlock’s doing that fake-crying thing of his which will certainly get him into trouble with Mycroft. Well, even more trouble. It doesn’t matter if it’s fake. Make Sherlock cry and you’ve just signed yourself up for a death sentence.

“Sher,” Greg starts but the kid’s already running out the door. “Damn it!” Crap, if this is what he gets for getting drunk then he’s never picking up a bottle again.

The household staff looks at him strangely as Greg slowly makes his way downstairs. One of them whispers something to her friend which Greg just knows is degrading. It’s obvious from the way she glares at him. The look makes him blush. They’re probably talking about how bad he is, about how he’s going to corrupt Mycroft and little Sherlock. 

Greg scowls. _So what?_

_Means you’re not good enough._

Luke and Mycroft are still arguing when Greg finally enters the kitchen. “You should have been more responsible,” Mycroft snaps. He’s glaring at Luke. Sherlock’s pressed against his side, obviously enjoying the show. “He could have gotten really sick.”

Luke scowls but surprisingly doesn’t say anything back. He looks awful but he doesn’t look like he’s battling a huge headache, unlike Greg. He’s sitting at the table, scowling at the bowl of cereal before him. “Really, Luke,” Mycroft continues. “You don’t even _think_.”

“Oi,” Greg growls. Fuck it if he’s hungover and fuck it if he sort-of fancies Mycroft. He’s not allowed to yell at Luke and call him stupid. Greg’s the only one allowed to do that. “It wasn’t Luke’s idea so shut the hell up, My.”

Mycroft glares at him. “And you. You weren’t thinking either.”

“I was having _fun_.”

“You were getting drunk and smoking up a storm—”

“I do what I want,” Greg argues. He’s being childish and he knows it but fuck it, fuck it, fuck it because Mycroft’s being an annoying dick and Greg absolutely hates it because he doesn’t have the right to be one. So what if they’re in a pre-bond? Doesn’t mean they’re together, doesn’t mean Mycroft can tell him what he can and can’t do. But Mycroft—he’s been doing this whole protective thing more than usual and it’s annoying the hell out of Greg because he doesn’t know what it means. And Mycroft, fuck him, won’t say.

Luke stares at the two of them. “I’m going to the living room,” he announces. He whistles at Sherlock. “Hey, kiddo, come with me. I’ll let you experiment on me or something.”

“Don’t want to.”

“Go!” Greg and Mycroft yell at the same time. Sherlock pouts at them but follows Luke out. 

“Okay,” Greg says once the two are gone. “I’m a fuck-up, alright? But don’t you dare take it out on Luke or any of my friends because it’s my choice to be a fuck-up. Yeah, I smoked and I drank and while the hangover’s getting to me, I _liked_ smoking and drinking.”

“You’re thirteen,” Mycroft hisses. “ _Only_ thirteen, Greg. You’re far too young to do those things.”

“Can you not do that?” Greg growls. “Can you just act your real age? For once? So what are you saying? That when I’m older then it’s perfectly acceptable to smoke and drink and snog random people?”

Mycroft narrows his eyes at him. “You didn’t snog anyone,” he mutters.

“Well, I wouldn’t know. I was _drunk_.”

Mycroft just glares at him. “You didn’t,” he repeats.

“Look, I wouldn’t know, alright? And why would you care?” Greg bites his lip. God, he sounds like a dick. Can’t help it, though. Mycroft’s being a dick as well and this headache…Where the hell is that Ibuprofen?

Mycroft shrugs. “I honestly don’t know if I should,” he says and god, he manages to make that sound awful. It makes Greg shut up, makes him feel every bit like the idiot teenager Mycroft’s implying that he is. He glares at the floor and tries hard not to show a negative reaction. He’s not going to cry in front of Mycroft. He’s not going to cry in front of anybody because he doesn’t feel like it. 

“I apologise,” Mycroft says, making Greg look up. “That was a mean thing to say.”

“Can’t change your opinion, can I?” Greg mutters. 

“How’s your head?”

“ _Splendid_.”

“Here. Drink this.”

“Ta.” Greg swallows the pill dry, ignoring the disapproving look he gets from Mycroft. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to,” Greg says. He still feels odd and a bit angry and it’s all because of Mycroft. At least, that’s something Greg’s sure of. But then Mycroft’s wrapping an arm around his waist, _hugging_ him and it’s so strange that Greg nearly chokes the pill back out of his stomach. Mycroft doesn’t hug people, not counting Sherlock. Greg’s hugged him before but it’s always him who initiates it, never the other way around.

“I truly am sorry,” Mycroft tells him. He’s taller than Greg and taller than Luke so that Greg’s pressed against his collar bone and oh god, Mycroft’s so warm. If Mycroft doesn’t pull away, Greg’s going to do or say something very embarrassing, very fast—

“MYCROFT, I’M HUNGRY!” Sherlock yells, loud enough to wake the dead and start an army.

“I told you to eat your breakfast,” Mycroft snaps, letting go of Greg. It makes Greg feel weird and he wants Mycroft to hug him again which he _shouldn’t_ want because admitting that is just going to add to his embarrassment.

“I WASN’T HUNGRY THEN—I’M HUNGRY NOW!”

“Sherlock, stop being such a brat!” 

“I’M TELLING MUMMY YOU’RE NOT LOOKING AFTER ME!”

Mycroft mutters something under his breath which Greg doesn’t catch. He pushes past him. Greg scratches his head and watches him leave. “Strange,” he says to himself.

* * *

“Kiss him.”

Greg rounds on Luke, wide-eyed. “What?” he yelps. “That’s insane!”

“Why not? He fancies you, too.”

Greg blushes. He looks past Luke to see if their grandmother has heard. She hasn’t. She’s too busy shouting at the telly. Greg punches Luke’s arm anyway, just for the heck of it. “Shut up. He doesn’t.”

“Try it.”

“It’s not a fucking joke, Luke!”

Luke merely rolls his eyes. “Just try it. When your parents drop you off next week, go and kiss him.”

“Luke—”

“He already knows you fancy him.”

“Yeah, and look where it’s gotten me.”

“Didn’t know you were a fucking coward, Lestrade.”

“Shut up.”

“He _hugged_ you. You said he did and you said that he doesn’t do that. Why’s that?”

“He was apologising.”

“Words exist for a reason, my friend. Besides, why was he so mad about us partying? If he really didn’t give a fuck about you, he wouldn’t have gone off the bend.”

Greg doesn’t say anything. It’s the wrong move because Luke grins like a shark. “AHA!” he shouts triumphantly. 

“Shut up, Rochewell. I mean it!”

“My baby’s all grown up,” Luke teases, kissing him on the cheek. “So proud.”

“I hate you,” Greg mumbles. “I fucking hate you, you know that right?”

“And I know that you _love_ Mycroft Holmes.”

Greg doesn’t care if their grandmother sees. He kicks Luke off the sofa, smiling to himself even when Gran starts yelling at the two of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Luke recites is an excerpt from Pablo Neruda's love sonnets. It's one of my favorites.


	7. Your Definition of Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dating <3

Luke has just crammed a jam-smeared slice of bread in his mouth when the door slams open. The sound makes him jump, the bread flying from his mouth and landing on the floor with a loud splat. “Fuck,” he swears, turning around to shoot Greg a glare. “That was my fucking snack.”

 

Greg merely stares at him, ashen-faced. He looks shit scared and normally, Luke would comfort him. But the thing is, he hasn’t eaten anything for ten hours and his stomach is telling him that he should be furious because his food is currently swimming in bacteria. “The hell is wrong with you?” he asks sharply, watching as his cousin takes a seat on the counter and buries his face in his hands. “Seriously, mate, you look like the walking dead.”

 

“I did it,” Greg mumbles.

 

“What you talkin’ about?” Luke bends down to pick up the bread. It’s not _too_ dirty so he stuffs it back inside his mouth. He knows that the five-second rule is bull but it’s not as if he hasn’t eaten anything worse. There was that three-day gone sandwich he’d eaten and he didn’t get sick, then.

 

Greg lifts his head. “Mycroft,” he says in a shaky voice that makes Luke’s stomach twinge. He narrows his eyes. Fucking Mycroft, he thinks, clenching his fists at the thought of him. If he hurt Greg…

 

 “What did he do? He hurt you?” he demands. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

 

That seems to bring Greg back to reality. “No, you idiot,” he snaps. “I did it, alright? That thing you told me to do. I—I—“ Greg falters then groans and hides his face in his hands. His face, Luke notes, has turned the same colour as a ripe tomato. Luke cocks his head to one side and stares at him.

 

Oh.

 

_Oh._

 

Huh.

 

Okay, _gross_.

 

“So,” he says, awkwardly. “How was it?”

 

“Stupid,” Greg mutters. He’s lying on the counter now, his legs dangling over the edge and his head dangerously close to a container full of casserole. Luke hastily moves it aside. “Quick. I ran.”

 

“Um. Okay.” Luke has no idea how to approach this. He’s never had the desire to kiss anyone before. He has, of course, kissed people, but only for fun. He’s kissed Chuck and he’s kissed Greg. Well, it’s more of slobbering on the person’s mouth than kissing but you can consider that, right? Okay, so kissing Greg was just dog-slobbering. Kissing Chuck, though…Luke frowns. He was drunk and Chuck was drunk so it was kissing but it didn’t mean anything. It’s certainly not the kind of kiss that should be followed by a serious conversation. There’s casual kissing and there’s kissing with meaning. At least, this is what Luke thinks.

 

“What did Mycroft say?”

 

“He didn’t say anything, alright?” Greg removes his hands and looks at him. He looks pathetic and Luke would laugh but Greg’s suffering seems sincere and Luke’s not _that_ cruel. He clambers onto the counter and rolls onto his stomach, draping one arm over Greg. The other boy groans and rolls to his side to drape his arm over Luke’s back. They probably look stupid and it should be weird but it’s something they’ve never grown out of. It’s an Alpha/Omega relative thing, the comfort that comes from the physical contact. Or it’s just them. Luke’s not sure.

 

“I’m too big for the counter,” Luke mumbles after three seconds. He rolls to his back and gently kicks Greg’s legs. “Fuck Mycroft if he didn’t like it. Find someone else.”

 

“I can’t believe I did that.” Greg stares at the ceiling morosely. “I’m such an idiot.”

 

Luke snorts. “When we were ten, we were both caught stuffing frogs in Jenna Kingsley’s locker. I was the only one who got detention because of the whole teachers-love-Greg-because-of-Mycroft thing. And you, you idiot—you wanted to be with me. You took off your trousers and just tore down the halls singing Sex Pistols on the top of your lungs. Crazy. I can’t believe that kissing Mycroft makes you more embarrassed than running around in just your pants.”

 

“My legs are very sexy,” Greg mumbles, eyes closed. “They’re not an embarrassment.”

 

“Sweetheart, with legs like that, I would have killed myself long ago.”

 

Greg sighs. “He just…He stood there and he didn’t say anything so I ran and—and—I don’t _know_. What am I supposed to say to him?”

 

“I dunno. Discuss baby names.”

 

Greg pinches his ear. “Bastard, I’m serious.”

 

“Well, I wouldn’t know either. Don’t ask me, mate.” Luke rolls away, wincing when Greg’s fingers accidentally tug his earring. “Maybe you should talk to Mum. Or watch _The Revenge of Maria Ramona._ Same situation as yours. See, Josephine’s conflicted over Emilio and Andres Jr. because…” He trails off when he sees Greg staring at him, one eyebrow raised disbelievingly. “It’s surprisingly good,” he defends. “You should try it.”

 

“Not happening.”

 

Greg closes his eyes once more and leans against him so that his head is resting on Luke’s shoulder. Luke closes his eyes as well. This is one of those you-really-shouldn’t-talk times that he always messes up when he’s not with Greg. Luke hates these times because he doesn’t know how to cope and when to break the silence. It’s not awkward but it’s far too serious and he doesn’t like being serious because it’s messy and weird and makes him feel old.

 

“What is it with you two and the kitchen counter?”

 

Luke’s father eyes them suspiciously from the threshold. “Hi, Dad,” Luke greets. Greg slips his hand in his and squeezes his fingers, hard. _Don’t you dare tell him._

Luke squeezes back. _Won’t. Promise._

His dad sighs. “Honestly, Lucas, your mother cooks there,” he says. There’s no trace of anger in his voice which is good. His dad’s alright until his temper gets to him and he doesn’t want Greg to see him receive another lecture about proper behaviour.

 

“It’s nice and cold and it smells like butter,” Luke points out, wrinkling his nose when the scratchy beard of his father makes contact with his forehead. Well, this is kissing as well, he thinks, but a different kind. Kind of like the dog-slobbering with Greg, only with finesse. Greg grins at him, the first real one today.

 

_You smoke all the time and you still get kisses from your daddy._

Luke kicks him. _As if_ you _don’t._

 

“Now it smells like two teenage boys who have no idea what a shower is.” A hand passes through his hair, through Greg’s. “When was the last time you two had a decent bath? Your hair’s practically pouring grease.”

 

Luke grunts and rolls away, landing on his feet with a small thud. Greg jumps off the counter. “You’ll be staying for dinner, Greg?” Luke’s father asks.

 

“Maybe,” Greg says.

 

Outside, Greg tosses him a pack. Luke sticks the cigarette in his mouth but doesn’t light it until they get to the park. It’s not as if their parents don’t know that they smoke. It’s not exactly an easy thing to hide, especially since they often stink of it. Fortunately, they seem to have the same philosophy as Brandon so it’s okay, as long as they do it far, far away from home. “I was young once,” Greg’s mother said, which was the only time she’d addressed the issue, “and you wouldn’t _believe_ half the things I’d done.” What those things were, Luke doesn’t remember because he tuned her out.He does know that _that’s_ not something you want to hear from an authority figure.

 

“Maybe I could die of lung cancer,” Greg says, revealing to Luke that he’s not over it and won’t be for a long time.

 

“Too bad,” Luke answers. “Our dads have been smoking for years and no one’s dead yet.”

 

“My ego.”

 

Luke scowls at him. “You’re so pathetic, Greg.” He doesn’t know why he feels a bit angry, but he does know that it has something to do with Greg’s attitude. He’s just too different today. It’s selfish but Luke doesn’t want him to be different. He needs Greg to act like himself and forget about Mycroft for once.

 

Greg doesn’t reply but he frowns a little. “Okay,” he says, dropping his cigarette to the ground and crushing it with the heel of his shoe. There’s a group of kids playing football nearby. Luke narrows his eyes at them, recognising one as part of that group of berks from school.

 

Greg smirks and Luke feels himself grin.

 

“Let’s mess with them.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

 

Greg bites his tongue, barely managing to stifle the embarrassing squeak his vocal chords were threatening to let out into the world. Mycroft gives him that same expressionless stare that should irk Greg but somehow just manages to look, well—

 

Okay, he is _not_ going to go there.

 

He stares at the battered _Rolling Stone_ in his hands and wonders if Mycroft will leave if Greg shows disinterest long enough. It’s not going to work though, and Greg knows it, even before Mycroft takes a seat next to him. “What are you doing?” he hisses, glaring at Mycroft over a picture of Jimmy Page. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

 

Mycroft blinks. He looks over his shoulder then at his surroundings with the same calm expression. “There’s no rule against going here,” he reminds Greg.

 

“Yeah, but…” Greg trails off. There are school rules, of course, and when you’re in the main building, the part which is free to both Omegas and Alphas, the rules are stricter. But then there are _rules_ , the ones that are unwritten and the ones that only the students know because it’s only applicable to them. Most of them are stupid but that’s school for you. The library, for example, is where Mycroft should be because that’s where the smart kids go. The backstage in the theatre is where Greg’s group hangs out, and, well, Mycroft just doesn’t fit here with the smokers and troublemakers, and for the older guys, the rich burnouts.

 

Greg looks around nervously. He doesn’t know what they’ll do if they find Mycroft here. Not much, he’s sure. But the staring and name-calling…it’s not nice. He knows; he’s experienced it when he made the mistake of following Luke to the library to research on a topic (in other words, rip pages from books instead of photocopying them). Mycroft’s friends aren’t exactly saints, either.

 

“It’s lunchtime,” Mycroft tells him. “No one’s coming.”

 

Greg freezes. Having someone else here would be bad, but being stuck here _alone_ with Mycroft isn’t ideal, either. “Uh, alright,” Greg says. He tries to focus on the magazine in his hands but it’s hard to read when someone’s staring at you intently. Greg closes it and sets it on his lap before he turns to Mycroft. _There’s no avoiding this._ “So…”

 

Only, Mycroft’s not even looking at him. He’s glaring at the collar of his shirt as if it’s personally offended him. Greg looks down but finds no fault, except for the few wrinkles and the loose tie. “Mustard,” Mycroft says when he finally notices Greg’s confused expression. “You’ve got mustard on your collar.”

 

“Oh.” Greg waits but Mycroft doesn’t stop staring at the spot on his shirt. “Okay, fine, I’ll put on my coat. Can you stop glaring at my shirt, please? So weird.”

 

Mycroft smiles at him and Greg grins. That is, until Mycroft says, “About that kiss—”

 

Greg groans, hides his face in his hands. He can feel himself burning up and he hates it because it’s just not like him to be this embarrassed. Years of detention and lectures from his parents should have left him jaded. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. I feel awful about it because you specifically told me that you’re not interested. Can we just forget about it?”

 

“Why would I want to do that?”

 

Greg removes his hands.

 

“I was thinking,” Mycroft says as he shifts in his seat. He looks uncomfortable and it’s so strange to see him acting like this that Greg nearly tunes out the rest of Mycroft’s sentence. “If you weren’t busy—”

 

“Are you asking me out?” Greg blurts out before Mycroft can even finish. Mycroft glares at him but he doesn’t give Greg another lecture about not interrupting people when they talk.

 

“Yes.”

 

Greg looks away. “I, uh, have football practice.”

 

Mycroft blinks. “Well, when you’re free.”

 

Greg stares at him, looks away again. “So, we’re really going to do this, then?” He laughs nervously. “You know… _this_. And it’s not just because you _feel_ that you have to, right?”

 

“I want to,” Mycroft says. “Very much.”

 

Greg fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve. He wonders if he should kiss Mycroft. He’s not sure if the situation calls for one. It’s not like he doesn’t know how to flirt because he’s done it; it’s a requirement when you’re doing your best to get out of trouble. It’s just that, when it comes to going beyond flirting, he’s quite at a loss.

 

Mycroft seems to sense his discomfort because he moves away a bit. “I’ll see you later,” he says, already back to the Mycroft Greg ‘s familiar with. It’s amazing how he can suddenly act like _nothing_ happened. For a second, Greg thinks of following him. But he rejects the idea as soon as it appeared and just sits there, magazine in hand, and waits for Luke.

 

* * *

 

 

“You have a _what_?”

 

“It’s not…We’re just going to hang out more,” Greg mumbles, refusing to meet Luke’s eyes. “It’s not a _date_.” At least, Mycroft didn’t _say_ it was. Greg’s not sure he wants it to be one because people who go on dates are those boring, lovesick couples in school and he’s definitely not boring. Nor are he and Mycroft a couple. Well, not yet? One kiss doesn’t make you like those people, right? And just because there’s this _thing_ between them, doesn’t mean that they’re going to be like those guys.

 

Right?

 

“He asked you out,” Luke says slowly, that confused puppy expression on his face. Greg wants to tell him that there is lettuce stuck between his teeth but can’t bring himself to do so because the situation just doesn’t seem to call for it. Also, they just had dinner and there was nothing green in their food.

 

“Isn’t that considered a date?”

 

Greg glares at him. “You wouldn’t know,” he says. Luke doesn’t take any offense, fortunately, because Greg has been kicked and punched enough for today. He does secretly wish that Luke knew because he doesn’t know how to do this. But Luke’s never had a crush on someone, has never even been a teensy-bit interested in anything with a pulse. In the romantic sense of course. Chuck’s no help, either. He’s too busy staring down the end of his cigarette to pay attention to anyone. Greg’s all alone here and he doesn’t like it.

 

“It’s a date,” Luke goads, poking a finger between Greg’s ribs. Greg moves back. “It _is_.”

 

“He hasn’t even asked me out!” Greg retorts, pushing Luke away. “I mean, he did, but he didn’t say anything specific. He just told me maybe. When I’m free.”

 

“You’re always free—oh wait.” Luke pauses. “Do we have detention this week?”

 

Greg thinks about it. They’ve caused a lot of problems for the Year 8 students but he’s positive that Petey, another one of his football mates, covered for them. “Not that I know of,” Greg admits.

 

Luke grins a Cheshire cat’s smile, one that fills Greg with a deep sense of foreboding. “That means you can go on your _DAAAAAAAATE_ ,” Luke sing-songs.

 

“Shut your trap.” Really, Greg thinks. One minute Luke’s retching at the thought of him and Mycroft, the next he’s acting like the freaking fairy godmother. Greg has no idea if Luke really wants him to be with My, or if he just likes seeing Greg uncomfortable. The latter, Greg decides when Luke doesn’t stop teasing him.

 

“Who has a date?”

 

Greg’s foot connects with Luke’s thigh, making the other boy yelp and double over. “No one,” Greg says at the same time Luke, possibly as an act of revenge, yells, “Greg has one!”

 

“You have a _date_?” Greg’s father narrows his eyes. “With whom?”

 

“Can you not use that word? Please, I hate it,” Greg says at the same time Luke says, “He and Mycroft are going out now.”

 

“Fucking hate you, Rochewell,” Greg murmurs under his breath, fighting the urge to slam a fist in his cousin’s face. Luke merely blows him a kiss before he jumps to his feet and runs out of the living room, leaving Greg alone to face his father.

 

He’s not in trouble, Greg knows, but he doesn’t like the look on his father’s face because he knows _exactly_ what it means. It’s true that his father was the one who helped arrange his pre-bond with Mycroft. And while his parents approve of Mycroft, _love_ him, even, his father’s instinct to protect refuses to stop, pre-bond or no pre-bond. It’s ironic how his father allows him to drink and smoke and swear like a sailor but will grow livid the moment someone looks at Greg with interest. Hilarious, according to Luke, but not to Greg who has received many talks on the many ways his father can decapitate a young Alpha with his bare hands.

 

Even Mycroft, the son of the man his father is working for. Even Mycroft isn’t exempt from the creative usage of a baseball bat (shoe, hammer, rolling pin, hell, even a bloody paper clip). It’s the curse of being an only child, and an Omega one at that. Greg wonders what his life would be like if his father were an Alpha instead of a Beta. God, he thinks, unable to suppress a shudder, I would have been stashed inside a bubble as soon as I was born.

 

His father shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the stern expression on his face not fading for even one second. “And where is Mycroft taking you?” he demands.

 

“ _Nowhere_. I’m serious, Dad. He just…you know.” Greg looks down at his hands, feeling a blush creep to his face. “Made things official, I guess.”

 

“And how exactly did Mycroft make things _official_?”

 

“Dad!” Greg yells. He’s not going to talk to his father about _that_. He’s also not going to tell his father that _he_ was the one who’d made the first move. He’d be placed under house arrest for one thing. “Fucking hell, can’t you just pretend that you didn’t hear anything?”

 

“No swearing in your mother’s house, Gregory,” his father warns. “Remember the rules.”

 

Greg huffs. “Yeah, I remember them. Sorry.”

 

His father nods. “Fine, I won’t bother you about it, but when you do go out with him, I’m setting a curfew.”

 

“You mean, I can stay outside until midnight with Luke doing god-knows-what but I have a curfew when I go out with _Mycroft_? Mycroft who doesn’t have a _single_ bad habit?” Greg says, laughing. “That’s just messed up.”

 

His father looks at him seriously and slowly, Greg’s laughter dies down. “Are you going to accept that one rule or do you need another lecture about what hormones can do to people your age?”

 

* * *

 

 

He hates this.

 

He’s aware that he shouldn’t hate it because it’s Mycroft he’s with. But he’s a teenage boy with a teenage boy’s taste buds and all this French/Italian/whatever food is hard to swallow. He’s been chewing on this tiny piece of steak for the past eight seconds. Mycroft must have noticed already. He’s giving Greg an odd look that makes him want to slide down the chair and hide underneath the table, at least until this bloody posh restaurant burns to the ground.

 

Stupid, he should have said something when Mycroft asked him if he was fine with the arrangement. He’s never had the patience for things like this, for anything formal, rather. Still, he does his best to hide it. It’s not exactly polite to make his discomfort visible, especially when Mycroft’s paying for everything.

 

Mycroft stares at him then sighs and calls the waiter. “We’re going,” he says. It takes a moment for Greg’s mind to understand, but when he finally catches up, all he can do is blink and ask, “What? Why?”

 

“You’re not enjoying yourself.”

 

 _Was I that obvious?_ Greg wonders if Mycroft is offended. Then again, he can’t exactly _force_ himself to enjoy something, right? He tries a smile. “What gave it away?” he teases.

 

“You keep shifting in your seat. And you still have that steak in your mouth.”

 

“I do not.” Greg tries to swallow subtly. Of course, it doesn’t work. Nothing is subtle to Mycroft. He stares at his barely-touched food then at Mycroft’s plate. “Um, shouldn’t we finish eating?”

 

“Are _you_ going to eat that?”

 

Greg frowns at the…the _thing_ swimming in white sauce before him. “No,” he admits.

 

* * *

 

 

“Where do you want to go?”

 

“Seriously? You’re asking me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Anywhere?”

 

“Wherever you want.”

 

Greg frowns and thinks.

 

“You know what? Let’s just walk around.”

 

* * *

 

 

Greg waits for the hacking cough, but it doesn’t arrive. Rather, he finds himself watching the trail of smoke rise from the end of the cigarette. Mycroft turns his head and exhales so that the smoke doesn’t reach Greg’s face. “You smoke,” Greg says, gobsmacked.  “You never said.”

 

Mycroft shrugs. “Only sometimes,” he admits, “When things get a tad bit out of hand. It helps get rid of stress but I’m afraid I just don’t have an addictive personality.”

 

“And I do?” Greg jokes, plucking the cigarette out of Mycroft’s fingers. It feels strange, smoking with Mycroft. It’s weird. It’s not exactly uncomfortable but it feels a bit like smoking in front of a teacher or a parent. It’s like he’s smoking for the first time, unsure and a bit scared of the consequences of his actions.

 

Mycroft smiles at him, that nearly imperceptible smile that tells people Mycroft Holmes is just as human as the rest of the masses. Well, only if you can see it. “You smoke, you drink—”

 

“Hey, I _rarely_ drink,” Greg protests, “Drunk isn’t a good look on me.”

 

“You consume a surprising quantity of caffeine per day. It’s a miracle that you haven’t gone into cardiac arrest.”

 

“Okay, guilty as charged. That last bit.” He drops the cigarette to the ground. “Anymore of my negative traits?”

 

The smile turns into a smirk. It’s similar to Sherlock’s which is strange since they don’t look alike at all. It’s one of those things that tell they’re related to each other: that smirk, the deducing thing, the way they fold their hands in front of them when they’re thinking.

 

“You rarely keep your mouth shut,” Mycroft answers. Greg mock-glares at him.

 

“Mean.”

 

“It’s rather charming,” Mycroft says in a way that makes Greg blushes furiously. One moment, he and Mycroft act like they’re just friends and the next, someone says something that tells Greg that they aren’t anymore, that they’re _more_ than that. He’s not comfortable with the idea yet even though he wants it. He bites his lip and wonders what he should do because Mycroft is staring at him intently. It’s never bothered him before, but now it just makes him too aware of his face and his teeth and his smell. He wonders if he reeks of sweat and tries to think of a way to check without making it too obvious.

 

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “What?” Greg starts to say but he stops when Mycroft cups the back of his head and presses his mouth against his.

 

Kissing, Greg finds is weird. You can’t breathe and it’s wet and your face itches afterwards. As a child, he often wondered why people did it, why people would deliberately exchange their saliva and germs and cut off their oxygen supply. Kissing Mycroft doesn’t change it. It’s still wet and weird and awkward. But somehow, despite these things, Greg still enjoys it.

 

Mycroft pulls away. “That wasn’t very gentlemanly of me,” Mycroft says, deadpan. Greg snorts.

 

“You ruined the moment!” Greg yells, punching him lightly on the shoulder.

 

“I wasn’t aware we were having ‘a moment’.”

 

“Yeah, right.”

 

“Should I make it up to you?”

 

Greg rolls his eyes. If someone told him a year ago that he’d be in front of his house, _flirting_ with Mycroft, he would have either burst a vital organ laughing hysterically, or dry-heaving in a corner. “You’re a sap, Mycroft Holmes,” Greg mutters. He lets Mycroft kiss him again anyway.

 

It’s a mistake, a big one. The front door swings open, making them both jump away. Fuck, Greg thinks when he sees his father at the threshold, arms crossed over his chest and looking quite annoyed. “That’s it,” Greg’s father mutters, shooting Mycroft a glare. “It’s past your curfew. Greg, get inside.”

 

Mycroft stands up, clears his throat, then offers a hand for his father to shake. “I should go home; my brother’s expecting me,” he says, dropping his hand to his side when Greg’s father refuses to move. Greg tries a glare at his father but it goes ignored. “It was nice seeing you, Mr Lestrade.”

 

Greg’s father merely grunts. For a moment, Mycroft stands there. He recovers quickly and, to what Greg thinks must raise his father’s irritation to a whole new level, kisses Greg’s cheek chastely.

 

“You really, really didn’t have to scare him off,” Greg says once Mycroft has left. “We weren’t doing anything wrong.”

 

Another grunt. But then his father’s face softens. “It’s hard watching you grow up,” he admits. “You’re still my little boy after all—”

 

“Oh god, Dad, _stop_.”

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft hears rather than sees Sherlock walk into his room. He keeps his eyes closed and listens to Sherlock move around, listens to him rummage through his things. The bed dips and Mycroft holds his breath and does his best to keep still when Sherlock sniffs his face.

 

“You smoked,” Sherlock says accusingly. “Father isn’t home.”

 

“With Greg,” Mycroft says. He opens his eyes and lets them adjust in the darkness, his brother’s face slowly coming into focus. It’s mostly blank but Mycroft knows better; he can read him with his eyes closed. The corners of his mouth are turned down slightly, his stance tense. Worried, Mycroft deduces.

 

“With Greg,” Mycroft repeats. “Not _because_ of Greg.”

 

“I’m not stupid,” Sherlock mutters indignantly.

 

He lifts himself, enough so that he can press his lips against Sherlock’s forehead. It’s not exactly a kiss but he lets himself linger, ignoring Sherlock’s protests.

 

“I know. Go back to sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voice of Reason: you don't usually write this much fluff--  
> Me: Shut up, bro, it's going to get angsty at one point. Not now, though, not while my babies are still growing up.  
> \--  
> The next chapter's a Halloween Special which I'll post much earlier since I'll be out of the country doing shit and there won't be any time for me to use the internet until I drop.


	8. Hallow's Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this was originally supposed to be posted on Hallow's Eve, but my laptop gave up on me and the file was there. Then, I had to rewrite it of course, but my sem break ended and--well, you get the idea, busy college student who needs to keep her scholarship. So this is really a Halloween special (though it's no longer Halloween but, hey, where I'm from, the whole month of November is dedicated to the dead). Another reason is, the typhoon. I'm sure you guys know about Typhoon Haiyan or Yolanda as we call it. I live near the affected area (but fortunately, we weren't affected by the storm surge, only the really strong wind which sounds like a demon, trust me, it was the scariest thing ever) and we were (well, are) busy with handling donations and stuff. It's absolutely insane there which is why this took weeks to finish. Sorry.

The clouds loom overhead, dark and heavy and giving the impression that there is something waiting behind them, something large and sinister and bent on destroying mankind. Greg shifts his weight from one foot to the other and bites the inside of his cheek. He has, at a young age, learned that he tends to bite the inside of his mouth or his lower lip when he’s nervous. He’s nervous now, quite, and beneath this deep, gripping feeling of anxiety, he thinks how ridiculous he is for being scared of a few clouds.

 

The wind picks up once more, bringing with it a low wail that makes the hairs on the back of Greg’s neck stand up. He tightens his coat around him, then lifts the collar up to get lost in its scent. It smells rich and dark, like spiced wine, like Mycroft. It should since it belongs to him. It’s that nice charcoal one with the silver stitching and brass buttons that Mycroft told him--many times--not to take. Greg, being Greg, took it anyway. Still, in spite of the thickness of the fabric, Greg feels a chill settle at the bottom of his spine.

 

Something thin and sharp presses against the spot, making him jump a bit. “Boo,” Luke says cheerfully. His words are garbled and when he smiles brightly, Greg sees the cause.

 

“I saw those in Chuck’s mouth a while ago,” he says as Luke spits out the ridiculously large plastic white fangs in his palm. Luke waggles his eyebrows playfully but says no more on the subject. As of now he’s the complete opposite of Greg, ridiculously energetic, almost wild in spite of the unspeakable terrors the night might bring. Then again, Luke is one of those terrors.

 

He puts an arm around Greg's shoulder then steers him to where the rest of the group are huddled under the awning of the small diner. "Cold," one of them complains and Greg cannot help but agree wholeheartedly. It's a bad, horrible weather, but considering the task at hand, it must be viewed as a wonderfully accommodating weather. Luke seems happy with it; Chuck, apathetic as always; and Greg apprehensive, his mind already wondering what the coming rain might do to his motorbike.

 

"Anyone want some hot chocolate?” Luke asks. “Chuck’s paying.”

 

“How much longer?” Dina Burgess asks. She’s shivering uncomfortably, but this time, the weather is not to be blamed. She’s showing far too much skin to be considered decent, even in a hot day. Then again, if her mission turns successful—seducing Chuck it seems, judging by the way her eyes keep jumping to him—then braving the bone-chilling wind will be a small price to pay. Neverthless, Greg still shoots Luke a glare in warning. He has no intention of hosting an orgy on Hallow’s Eve, nor on any day for that matter.

 

“The Altairs’ place isn’t far off,” Luke promises with a pat on Dina’s shoulder, far too close to her left breast to be considered an accident. Then again, with breasts the size of that, they’re incredibly hard to miss. “Right, Greg?”

 

Greg purses his lips but nods. They’re not even there yet and he’s already starting to have doubts. He wishes he never agreed to this. It's not that he's scared of ghosts--he doesn't even believe in them. Well, not really. But he's not too keen on being held responsible for a good number of the kids in his class.

 

The Altairs’ place is an abandoned Victorian-esque mansion that’s even bigger than the Holmes’ manor—which is saying something as Mycroft’s home is large enough to accommodate the population of a small village. It’s a famous place, known for the rumours of poltergeists and the sad, lonely ghost of Celeste Altair, who, if the urban legends are to be believed, was repeatedly sexually abused by an uncle before she stabbed herself to death. The stories must be true. There’ve been several reports of trespassing in the past, but so far, no one’s been arrested yet. Most likely, the police are afraid to venture too far in the house.

 

Guns are no good against ghosts, after all.

 

It’s the perfect place to spend Hallow’s Eve, which is really the reason why they’re heading there, no matter how many times Luke insists that they’re just going to frighten a few kids as a prank. Luke absolutely loves Hallow's Eve, though he'll never admit it out loud. He’s not exactly fooling anyone, not even the people they’re planning to scare. Greg knows they’re well-aware of their fate, knows from their grim faces and their weary frowns at Luke whenever he rakes his crummy fingernails on the backs of their necks. Why they bother to entertain his childish whims is a mystery to Greg. 

 

Well, no, not really a mystery. The group is easily divisible by five divisions: a) the kids who have nothing better to do, b) the kids who genuinely want to go ghost-hunting, c) the kids who are mad enough to be infatuated with Luke, d) the kids who lust after Chuck, and, embarrassingly-amusingly group e) the kids in love with  _him_. Surprisingly, despite having a pre-bond with Mycroft, the number of kids in division e is quite a large one. It’s funny. It never fails to piss Mycroft off. And that little fact makes it even more hilarious.

 

He gets jealous, Mycroft, no matter how many times he insists that he doesn’t, of course not, he’s beyond such a petty thing as jealousy. It’s a lie, a big one, though it might not be blatantly obvious to people who don’t know Mycroft or his brother. It must be a Holmes’ trait—Sherlock might dislike John but he dislikes it even more when John’s not paying attention to him. It’s funny to make Mycroft jealous because he’ll insist over and over again that he couldn’t care less.

 

As if he didn’t give Greg the silent-treatment when he found out Paul Lucca is with them.

 

Greg gets why Paul’s presence upsets Mycroft. He’s in Mycroft’s age group but he hangs out with them for a smoke and a drink, and occasionally, for times like this. Paul’s like them, a lover of loud music and bikes and leather jackets. He’s an Alpha, and well, Paul’s many liaisons with kids from their school and from out of town are no secret.

 

“I’m not even his type!” Greg yelled, half-amused, half-exasperated by Mycroft’s silence. “He prefers  _girls_ , My.”

 

Paul’s preference did little to change Mycroft’s behaviour, though.

 

He wonders what Mycroft’s doing, before remembering the date and the event it’s associated with. He imagines Mycroft sitting next to Sherlock, their faces blank as people encourage them to dance with them. Greg has been to the Mensa’s annual Halloween party only once. It was depressing, the so-called geniuses turning dumb as they interacted with each other in their awkward manner. Greg didn’t know whether or not he should laugh or cringe at their behaviour. He settled instead on gorging himself on all kinds of food, and, embarrassingly got drunk on the punch that had been spiked with tequila (the suspected culprit, Sherlock, denied everything and could not be proven guilty). John’s with them now. Greg feels sorry for him, but not sorry enough to come up with something that would help him avoid attending the stupid party.

 

“You guys go ahead,” he says, wrenching his arm out of Luke’s grasp, “I’ll just go check in on My.” He jerks his head to where an ancient telephone booth is stationed. Someone—a Doctor Who fan, no doubt—has sloppily painted it blue.

 

Luke scoffs. It’s all for show, though—Greg doesn’t miss how Luke’s eyes dart up and down the street, checking if it’s safe to leave him alone. “Alright but hurry up. We’ll get a seat by the window.” A warning to stay close, hidden underneath nonchalance. Greg smirks. Luke's such a sap. “I’m going to eat all the waffles if you don’t.”

 

“Whatever, pig out, I don’t care.”

 

Luke sticks his tongue out at him before purposefully barreling into an unfortunate being. He slings his arm over the girl's shoulders to drag her inside the store, the rest following suit. The door slams shut behind them, closed by the sudden gale. Greg tries his best not to associate nature's howl with something supernatural. It's just a storm.

 

Things will be alright.

 

* * *

 

 

 “We’re lost. We have to be lost. This map doesn’t even make any sense.”

 

“Maybe you just don’t know how to read it properly—give me that.”

 

“No fucking way! You’d probably have us drive off a cliff if I let you take the lead.”

 

Luke opens his mouth to argue, realises that Greg isn’t far from the truth, then promptly closes his mouth once more. He ought to feel insulted but he has no room for hurt. He’s not freaking out—not yet—anyway, but he can sense it coming, like an itch that, if scratched, would lead to the world’s most uncomfortable rash. He’s been lost before—is familiar with the feeling of being lost to be more specific. He’s gotten lost with Greg as well, but he never panicked then because Greg can take care of himself. He’s never been responsible for a group. This is why he avoids the things Mycroft likes—looking out for others, negotiating with adults, etc.

 

He tried once.

 

It didn’t work out.

 

Greg looks at him with a mixture of amusement and what Luke thinks might be pity. It makes Luke scowl. It’s stupid but for a second, he _wants_ Greg to not know what to do. _Selfish bastard_ , he chides himself. He admits, he gets jealous sometimes. It’s inevitable—they grew up together. Hell, people say they even look the same, with their dark hair and usual get-up of an ancient band shirt and crumpled jeans. So it’s a bit annoying when Greg’s better at him than something. He’d feel a lot worse about it if Greg didn’t get jealous either.  So it’s okay…

 

Sort of, anyway.

 

“I’ll handle this,” Greg assures him. He’s put on that _tone_ , the one that separates him from the rest of them. It’s like Mycroft’s, and they hate it, of course they do. It’s just so _confident_ , so mature and it makes Luke feel younger than his years but damn it, he can’t hate Greg for that because he’ll need to be able to speak in that way if he’s going to end up with Mycroft. “Go have a smoke.”

 

“I’ve smoked all my cigarettes,” he says. It’s a lie, of course, and Greg knows it. Anyone who knows him would know that it’s a lie. Greg merely laughs and shoves him gently, dismissing him. Luke bites his tongue. He does have control over himself, no matter how much people insist that he’s got no manners. Animalistic’s what they use.

 

They’ve scattered, the others. Some of them are sitting on the hoods of their cars, others are huddled together muttering about the weather or his and Greg’s lack of leadership. Luke fights the urge to pick a fight with one of those complaining. It is cold and raining a bit and they’re in god-knows-where with no way to contact anyone sane enough to have rejected the invitation.

 

Crap, his ideas really _are_ stupid.

 

“Are you going to mope all night?” Chuck asks. He’s sprawled in the backseat of what might be Paul Lucca’s car, head hanging over the edge so that he’s looking at Luke upside down. He doesn’t have a cigarette on him for once.

 

“Not moping,” Luke says.

 

“Yeah, right.”

 

He tells Chuck to shut up before he clambers inside, shutting the door behind him so that he gets a full blast of the car’s scent, a mixture of stale beer, sweat, and cheap cigarettes. “Move,” Luke grumbles, pushing Chuck’s legs out of the way to make room for his own. There’s not much room, even if he squishes him so he just settles for resting his legs on Chuck’s lap.

 

Chuck narrows his eyes at him. He must be thinking the same thing. It’s impossible not to when they’re practically on top of each other in an enclosed space, but damn it, he’s not going to do anything with Greg and a great number of their friends outside. “No fucking way,” he snaps. Chuck rolls his eyes.

 

“I wasn’t initiating anything,” Chuck mutters.

 

“As if. You can’t resist me.” He gets shoved for that one. It’s familiar, and immediately, Luke relaxes. They don’t have to talk about it because Chuck’s still his friend. He’s still Chuck with his moods and fancy cigarettes and Luke can still hit him and call him ugly and not feel awkward about it just because they’re sleeping together. Or, experimenting—he’s not sure what he should call what they’re doing. A mutual hand job isn’t sleeping with each other, right?  They’re just boys dealing with sexual frustration, and it’s better to do it with someone you know than with a stranger. At least, this is what they told each other after that first drunken night. But whatever this is, it’s not going to go anywhere, because they both know they’ll get bored with each other, they’ll look for other people, and Chuck will settle down with someone, just like his older brother, and he’ll become a businessman with a shiny red sports car and trophy wife. Luke’s not sure where he’ll end up, but he’s sure of what Chuck will become once they get sick of each other.

 

It’s not that he finds Chuck repulsive because, hell, if Chuck were ugly he would never, ever get on his knees for him. Luke’s not hideous. In fact, he’s got enough looks to pull someone to his bed. And yeah, Chuck’s handsome. Even if Luke will never admit it out loud, he can’t deny that fact. They like each other well enough but as _friends_. Friends who sometimes get naked with each other. But still, you know, _friends._ And what will happen to the two of them if they decide to try to turn whatever this is to what Greg and Mycroft have? They’d probably be dead in less than a week from smoking every cigarette in England.

 

“Do you think they do it?” Chuck asks once the momentary lull has gotten to the point of being uncomfortable. Luke turns his attention to him. “Mycroft and Greg, I mean.”

 

Luke makes a face. He doesn’t want to think about _that_. But once the repulsion dissipates, he begins to think about it. Okay, he doesn’t really _think_ about it, but…you know, he thinks about it…in theory. “I’m not sure,” he admits. Chuck raises an eyebrow at him.

 

He _should_ know. He’s not just Greg’s sentinel, he’s also his best friend. They tell each other everything. But since Greg and Mycroft became a thing, well, Greg doesn’t really talk much about himself anymore which pisses Luke off a bit because he tells Greg everything, even the stupidest, most embarrassing things he’s done. So maybe this is revenge, by not telling Greg his friends-with-benefits-relationship with Chuck—also _Greg’s_ best friend, mind you.

 

“I screw up all the time,” he says out loud, for some reason. Must be the ADHD or the fact that it’s too quiet. It sounds pathetic even to his own ears. Chuck snorts then circles his ankle with his thumb and forefinger, stroking the skin there until Luke feels interest spark low in his belly. It’s not even a sexual touch. Most likely, Chuck doesn’t mean it to be.

 

Fuck, he thinks, as he shoots Chuck a half-hearted glare.

 

“You’re good at some things,” Chuck tells him, pointedly, and oh yeah, sure, he’s good at _that_ because he’s had sex more than once and Chuck must find it good, of course he does, he’s Luke fucking Rochewell, he’s a bloody sex god.

 

“When we get there,” Luke says with a leer, though it’s half-hearted. Chuck only sleeps with him when Luke’s upset or bored or—but this is rare—head-over-heels happy. It’s good but, he wonders what sex would feel like, if he did it with someone else and meant it.

 

* * *

 

 

Everything is ridiculous. This trip, agreeing to go to this trip, the people in this trip, and the two people who initiated this whole ridiculous plan to get everyone scared out of their minds in god knows where. The mansion deserves to be put in a dictionary to define the word ‘horror’. They’re not even inside, yet Frances Bradbury can already feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She never should have agreed to accompany them. She doesn’t belong here, not with this group, anyway. Fuck you, Mycroft, she thinks as Rochewell nearly knocks her over. He’s horsing around again, laughing loudly with Chuck Estaves at his heels.

 

Fuck them.

 

Greg’s smile is apologetic and a little wary, like he’s afraid that he’ll be ambushed the moment he opens his mouth. “We’ll be staying here tonight,” he reminds her for what must be the tenth time. She gives him the dirtiest look she can manage, and fortunately, he drops the act and replaces the boyish smile with a frown. It’s an act. At least, this is what Frances believes because Greg Lestrade and his cousin Luke Rochewell—sometimes with Chuck Estaves—are master manipulators. They have to be in order not to get expelled from all the stupid things they like to do. They’re the most difficult people to drag to detention, or sometimes, the principal’s office because they do this _thing_. Frances is not exactly sure how they do it but it’s usually in the form of a smile or a few charming words, and they’re free to go. Honestly, sometimes she _hates_ them.

 

“You scared, Frances?” Greg teases, bringing back that smile. His front teeth are rather large, she notices, like a kid who has yet to grow into them. It makes him look innocent and she wonders if maybe _those_ are what get him out of trouble.

 

“Lestrade,” she snaps. “Quit it.”

 

He looks a bit hurt but Frances bites the inside of her cheek and doesn’t apologise. She feels guilty, but only slightly. This is Greg, after all. He’s nicer compared to the other two but she suspects it’s only because she’s Mycroft’s friend. They hate each other, deep down, hidden underneath all the polite smiles and inane greetings that they have to do because she’s Mycroft’s friend and he’s Mycroft’s boyfriend, so society demands that they become friends. Which will never happen.

 

He’s not horrible, mind you. It’s just…they’re so _different._ At least she doesn’t insult him to his face, unlike the others. Greg’s not exactly someone they trust with Mycroft. Why Mycroft likes him so much is a mystery. Sure, they have a pre-bond and Greg’s good-looking, but he’s not someone you’d trust to take care of you when you’re sick or hurt. And he flirts. A lot. He flirts with anyone who’ll look his way, sometimes even in front of Mycroft.

 

It’s just a game, Mycroft always insists. It doesn’t mean _anything_.

 

“Well, what if it does one day?” Keith argued when they were seated in the prefects’ lounge. “He might even be cheating on you right now.”

 

* * *

 

 

Paolo Luchetti frowns at the reddish-brown stain on the moth-eaten tapestry. “This is blood,” he announces matter-of-factly. It doesn’t smell like blood. It smells like dust and bug-shit but that stain can’t be anything else other than blood, unless someone before them thought of grabbing the tapestry to use it to wipe his arse. Well, it could be shit but, he’s definitely not going to check.

 

Next to him, Greg Lestrade lets out a nervous chuckle. “Guess old Celeste got one nasty paper cut,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant. It doesn’t work. “What do you think, Paul?”

 

“It’s definitely blood,” he replies. Paul, he remembers. Not Paolo, at least, not outside Italy. It’s confusing sometimes, especially when last week, he’s just spent three days surrounded by Italian relatives, talking in Italian, and being called by his real name, not the one he got four years ago. He understands that most people have trouble pronouncing Luchetti, hence changing his surname to Lucca, but it’s not exactly difficult to say Paolo. He suspects they’re just too lazy to say more than one syllable.

 

Greg stares at him disbelievingly, having to crane his neck to do so. He’s not short. Paolo’s just too tall. He was 6’3 the last time he checked, though he guesses that he may have gotten taller. There’s an added disproportion to their eye levels, although Greg’s probably 5’11 now. Still, Paolo feels the urge to ­­rest his hand on top of Greg’s head, and oh, what the hell, he does it anyway. It must be a tall person thing, this urge to rest your hand or your chin on a shorter person’s head, maybe to compare heights or just to annoy the other guy.

 

Greg doesn’t get mad. Maybe he’s used to Luke or Mycroft Holmes doing this to him or he really doesn’t care. His hair is startlingly soft, a bit like a baby’s actually, and when Paolo says this out loud, Greg shoots him a death glare. “It’s not,” he mutters.

 

He catches a flash of movement in his peripheral vision and catches sight of Frances Bradbury watching them, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why’d you invite her?” he asks Greg who looks over his shoulder to frown at Frances. “You’re not friends.”

 

Greg shrugs. “Guess she’s watching out for Mycroft.” He grins all of a sudden. “His friends don’t trust me. Especially, with you. They think we’ll go at it like fucking rabbits if she takes her eyes off me for even one second.”

 

Paolo blinks slowly. Sometimes Greg surprises him because if you put him with Luke and Chuck, he’s mild, more level-headed. Possibly Mycroft’s influence or it’s an Omega thing or he’s been trained to look out for Luke who Paolo would never trust with any living thing. But then he says things like this, things people wouldn’t normally say in public or even when alone with one person, and Paolo is instantly reminded why Greg’s one of them.

 

“You’re not my type,” Paolo tells him. And he’s not, really not, because other than the fact that Greg is like a little brother who sometimes worships him and is sometimes annoying for worshipping him, he’s male and looks a bit like a kid and still acts like a kid, like when he sticks his hand in a jar of peanut butter because he’s too lazy to get a spoon or when he whines at Luke whenever the two of them go his house and play Galaga. Besides, Greg’s got Mycroft and, Paolo admits, it’s weird that they get along since Mycroft is the epitome of prim and proper and Greg…well, he’s Greg. But they seem to genuinely like each other. And sure, Paolo sleeps around, he’s not going to clean his reputation for being a bit of a whore, but he doesn’t do infidelity, despite the rumours

 

Greg clutches his chest, pretending to be wounded. “Dork,” Paolo says as he ruffles his hair, earning him a two-fingered salute before Greg moves away to join Luke. They’re laying sleeping bags on the dusty floor, exchanging ridiculous anecdotes and ghost stories. Chuck is crouched in front of the blackened fireplace with a lighter, looking flushed and rather rumpled.

 

“I brought sausages,” Emily Morris says. “And other stuff.”

 

“Okay, but who brought the fucking alcohol?” Luke asks. His hair is sticking out at odd angles and his shirt is wrinkled. Paolo wonders why Greg hasn’t seen it yet. Chuck and Luke’s friends-with-benefits relationship has turned into an open secret and while they don’t talk about it, it’s pretty obvious that it’s going on. Unless, Greg has never thought of the possibility, or…

 

Paolo turns to Quentin Grace and taps him on the shoulder. “You owe me,” he whispers, and Quentin scowls but readily hands him a wadded fifty-pound note.

 

You’re never too old to bet on your friend’s virginity.

 

* * *

 

 

“…and then it just grabbed her throat and—”

 

“Wait, it just what? When did that happen?”

 

“It just did! You’re not listening!”

 

“Ow, there’s no need to hit me!”

 

“Your story sucks anyway.”

 

“Yeah, well, so does your mum!”

 

“Ow!”

 

“Oi, quit it!”

 

Luke shoves Norton. “Fine!” he slurs, spitting beer and saliva all over Norton’s face. “My story sucks but you better tell something better.”

 

Greg peers at the can in his hand and wonders why on earth they came here in the first place when they could have just drank in Paul’s place or gone to a bar. A clap of thunder outside silences Luke and Norton and Greg’s half-sober mind goes, oh right, it’s Hallow’s Eve and this is supposed to be scary. And it is scary, honestly. The mansion’s sitting room is huge and dark, even with about twelve candles and the fireplace, and the shadows seem too dark and long to even be real. Plus, there’s a storm outside. The wind is howling and crashing against the walls. It is frightening but there’s alcohol present and alcohol just makes things less scary. If Greg wasn’t half-drunk right now, he’d probably be climbing the walls.

 

“Hey, I’ve got one,” Emily says. She slides off Paul’s lap to grab a fresh beer. “Ever heard of Mrs Darlington’s doppelganger?”

 

“Seriously?” Dina mutters scathingly. The envy in her voice is hard to miss. Greg wonders if he’s made the mistake in thinking Dina wants to sleep with Chuck when she really wants to sleep with Paul, or if Dina just wants to get laid tonight. Greg wonders if he should remind her that Emily’s got a girlfriend before remembering that just last week, Dina tried to kiss him, making it look like an accident.

 

Best keep quiet, then.

 

“Yeah, I’m serious,” Emily counters, staring Dina down. For such a little person, she manages to pull it off. Dina huffs but finally keeps quiet. “Anyway,” Emily says, “I’m pretty sure you guys know Iris Farley. So the school’s got the whole no Alphas entering the B building during break, right? Well, Iris and her friends went in since they were going to sneak Yuna Lee out and she was waiting for them in the music library. So they climbed in through the window of a classroom in the third floor. Iris got the shock of her life when she saw Mrs Darlington at her desk, checking papers. She thought they were going to get in trouble but when Mrs D looked up…she didn’t have a face.”

 

Luke’s brows knit in confusion. “What do you mean she doesn’t have a face?”

 

“It’s blurred! Like, smudged or something. And Iris fell backwards which is why she broke her wrist two years ago. And when she and her friends went to the clinic, they saw Mrs Darlington just entering the school!”

 

“Fuck.”

 

“No way.”

 

“Christ, Mrs Darlington? _Damn_.”

 

“Okay, I’ve got one even better,” Chuck offers. He straightens himself so that the shadows cast by the fireplace slide off his body and—Greg blinks, surprised—highlights what appears to be a hickey on the side of his throat. “You guys know Annie Malkovich—I’m sure you all do.”

 

Greg sits up as well, suddenly sober. The others murmur assent, that yes, they all know about Annie, how can they _not_? It’s a serious topic and it doesn’t really hurt—Annie was years ahead of them—but it’s just too grave a topic to use as a ghost story. To be fair with Chuck, he’s not smiling. It’s less of a ghost story and more of a tragic tale about a girl who went to their school and was raped and murdered by a bunch of pricks less than a month before her graduation. Chuck tells the story as it is then moves on to the one Greg has never heard until now.

 

“So Room 401, the Year 11s are having their exam when all of a sudden, they hear this faint crying. At first, the class thinks it’s just the wind or someone’s toy or whatever. They ignore it for a while but then they hear it again, much louder this time, as if the person who’s crying is right next to you. It goes loud and soft and loud and soft, like the person’s moving around and then it just gets to the point of hysteria, screaming now, pleading. The class panics and they move out and for a week, none of them will go to class. That was, I dunno, maybe two or three weeks after Annie’s funeral.”

 

There’s no jeering, no comments. One by one they raise their beers and drink in honour of the dead girl. Greg wonders if they’re honouring or insulting her memory by drinking before he decides that it’s far too sad a thought to reside in his brain. No, this night is for drinking and stupid ghost stories.

 

Finally, it’s back to Luke who tips his head back to drain what must be his fourth can, then slams it on the floor and announces, “I’ve got one.”

 

“Nothing stupid!” Frances yells. She’s more than half-drunk already and she’s got her head resting on Heinrich Poole’s shoulder. She’s not bad when she’s drunk and judging from Poole’s face, he’s definitely enjoying having Frances draped all over him. Well, Greg thinks, he ought to do something about that.

 

Or not.

 

“It’s not stupid,” Luke argues. “It happened years ago. I was getting ready for school, facing the full-length mirror in my bedroom when this little kid passed by my window and waved at me. So I waved back and even thought, wow, that’s nice to have a total stranger say hello to me…And then I realized I was on the fucking third floor.”

 

“You had a little ghost kid see you in your pants?”

 

Luke blinks blearily. “That’s…that was not the point of the story!”

 

“Okay, okay,” Paul says. “No fighting. Anyone else?”

 

“Yeah, I’ve got one,” Leaf Elgin says in that disturbingly quiet voice of his. If anyone could make a living out of telling ghost stories, Leaf would make billions. He’s a small kid with hair so blond it’s nearly white and eyes just as pale as Sherlock’s, only Leaf’s are a bit bug-eyed, giving him the impression of an awestruck fish or Casper, the friendly ghost. He creeps everyone out, and normally, they’d stay away from him, but this is Hallow’s Eve and if it’s Luke’s favorite holiday, it’s practically Leaf’s second birthday.

 

“It’s called the Knife Man,” Leaf continues, dropping his voice and forcing them to move closer. “The story starts with this young woman going home from work. See, she’s a workaholic, you know, fresh graduate, thinks she can get the highest position overnight. Yeah, shit, like that. Anyway, it’s late by the time she gets in her car. There are few cars outside and when she makes the left turn that leads to her house, her car’s the only one in the street.

 

“But then there’s a flash of light and when she looks at her rearview mirror, she sees another car following her. The driver’s beeping his horn all the while, but he stops when she looks over her shoulder. She turns her attention ahead once more and the beeping starts again. But when she looks back, he stops. And this goes on and on and on, and she panics. He might be a rapist or a murderer or a combination of the two so she speeds up, with this guy following her, all the way to her driveway.

 

“She gets out of her car and this guy gets out as well. And then he tells her not to panic and that he’s really sorry he scared her. See, he could see that there was someone sitting in the backseat of her car, holding up a knife. He was trying to warn her, but every time she looked back, the knife would go down.”

 

“She thought he was just pulling her leg, but when the two of them checked the backseat of her car, they saw it lying there—one knife, coated in dried blood.”

 

* * *

 

 

Greg keeps his eyes closed and prays for the room to stop spinning already. His pillow gurgles beneath his head. “Sorry,” Luke burps. “Too much drinking.”

 

“Thought we were going to move around and look for shit,” Greg says. His breath reeks and tastes of beer and his stomach feels full and warm to the point of discomfort. He slides his hand under his shirt and scratches his belly, careful not to jostle Paul whose head is resting a little below his elbow. Fucking Leaf, Greg thinks as someone rolls to his side and bumps his leg. No one wants to say it out loud but Leaf has managed to frighten them with his stories. The first one was bad enough, but then he just had to revel in the limelight and add more, each one creepier than the last.

 

“You think our bikes are okay?” Luke asks. Greg cranes his neck to look at his face but it’s too dark and cramped and the weird feeling that someone is watching them is making him make as little movement as possible.

 

“It’s still raining outside,” Greg says. It’s confirmed with a flash of lighting that illuminates the room for a second, followed by a loud clap of thunder. “If there’s still a storm tomorrow, we’re screwed. Either we wait it out or Mycroft gets annoyed with my absence and sends people to come pick us up.”

 

“Well, alright. Hey?”

 

“What?”

 

Luke keeps quiet for a moment, but just for a moment—you can’t really keep him quiet forever without killing him. “You think if we die, we’ll come back to haunt people?”

 

Greg blinks. The fuck, he starts to think, before he remembers the alcohol and it's effect on Luke's brain. “Uh, I dunno. If someone killed me…yeah, maybe?”

 

“I would do it,” Luke says seriously. “I’d come back as a ghost and scare the shit out of our most-bastardly acquaintances. Probably turn into a poltergeist or something.”

 

“I don’t really think you have a choice.”

 

“But _if_ you could. Would you?”

 

Greg thinks about it. He doesn't think he'll be the vengeful kind of ghost--he doesn't really have anyone to hate. But if he did die before Mycroft and his friends and his family, then maybe he'd come back, just to see them. Or attempt to frighten Sherlock.“If there’s something to come back to. Yeah, why not? What’s with all the questions, anyway?”

 

Luke pats his head. “I’m a very drunk man,” he tells him.

 

“Okay…Wanna play Ask? Alright, uh, death by drowning or fire?”

 

“Er, fire, because I’m a hot babe.” Greg rolls his eyes and forcefully buries the back of his head into Luke’s stomach, making him heave and squirm in pain. “Ouch! No, seriously, fire. I’d die by suffocating anyway.”

 

“Whatever. I’d rather drown.”

 

Luke yawns. “Get eaten by a shark.”

 

“Get saved by a really gorgeous mermaid.”

 

“Get killed by Mycroft for flirting with said mermaid. You’re so under him.”

 

“Am not!” Greg pinches Luke’s thigh. He’s not, alright? It's not like he follows Mycroft's every whim. He'd always be dressed in a suit and tie if he did. “You Alphas are real jerks.”

 

“Your boyfriend’s an Alpha," Luke points out.

 

" _So_?"

 

"Whipped," Luke murmurs, the imitates the crack of a whip. Greg pinches him again, trying to dig his nails in deeper. Only Luke's jeans are practically made of steel and he only succeeds in making his fingertips hurt.

 

“Okay, that’s it," he huffs. "Just because My and are a thing, doesn’t mean he’s not annoying sometimes.”

 

“He’s annoying all the time.”

 

“Exaggerating, but…yeah, My’s got a bad side to him. But it would be boring if we were okay all the time...And, I guess that's what makes him Mycroft."

 

"Ew, man, you're so sentimental."

 

Greg considers getting up to hit him but Luke's stomach rumbles again, distracting him. He's about to make a comment on it when all of a sudden, Luke lets out a snort and a low whistle. Dead to the world already. "Loser," Greg mutters, keeping his eyes trained on the dirt-encrusted window across him and wondering whether or not he'll be able to sleep at all. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ghost stories in this chapter are ghost stories told by students in my school.


	9. (Not) Guilty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Split into two parts. Tried combining it but it felt wrong to have Greg's pov in there, I'm sorry if it's too short.

The first time it happened, or at least, the first time Mycroft realized that it could happen, he was seven and Sherlock was barely in the picture yet, could barely even be considered a human being as he was still confined in their mother’s belly. Father was sick, his mother always told him this. But he was only seven and though he was intelligent, for him, sick came in the form of fevered skin and runny noses. It meant hospitals and a cold stethoscope pressed against your chest, and sometimes, when his mother permitted it, it could mean accepting a lollipop from the doctor. He knew about the other kind of sickness, about insanity. But when Father got depressed a few weeks after they sat him down and told him he was going to have a little brother or sister, Mycroft realised that Father’s sickness runs deeper.

 

His Father isn’t a bad man, not really. Just strange, hot-tempered, and a bit misguided, like most of his relatives, which makes it hard to figure out if it’s the bipolar disorder making him act that way, or if he just acts like that because he grew up surrounded by people with the same personality. Mycroft doesn’t hate him, not like Sherlock who’s never really learned to keep under the radar, anyway. Besides, some of the fights could have been avoided if Sherlock had just kept his mouth shut. Among the two of them, it’s obvious that he’s the favorite, not his little brother who attracts trouble wherever he goes and even has the audacity to look their parents in the eye and challenge them to punish him. Their mother doesn’t, but their Father did. A lot, and Sherlock, the little brat, wore every scar, every mark like a brand of courage. He doesn’t have to anymore, doesn’t really have a reason to. Father’s gone and while he calls sometimes, it’s only to discuss legal matters with Mycroft. He’s still molding him to follow in his footsteps even while a thousand miles away, and it must be working because Sherlock looks at him differently now, his mouth twisting to form the same scowl he puts on whenever he’s in the presence of someone he truly dislikes.

 

This? This, Mycroft can hate.

 

Sherlock’s become more solitary with Father gone, opting to lock himself in his room with his violin when at home, ignoring Mycroft’s calls when in his new school. He talks very little, even less to their mother and Mycroft thinks this is absolutely unfair because at least _she_ doesn’t see him as a lost cause. At least she’s still there. Mycroft doesn’t know what’s wrong with him—he gave up trying to understand Sherlock a long time ago, possibly the same time Sherlock gave up on him. He’s not happy, not by a longshot, but he’s not miserable, either, and Mycroft thinks this is alright. As long as he’s eating and sleeping, then Mycroft can leave him alone for a while. He’s got bigger problems anyway.

 

“You’re working too hard,” Frances tells him. She drops her bag on the desk, takes a seat, then rounds in on him. “ _Again_.”

 

Mycroft doesn’t bother stopping and gives in to the urge to roll his eyes. All his friends—the ones who didn’t fade into the background when they separated to go to uni—say that when they meet him. It’s not exactly a lie. Frances says that a lot so it’s true. She’s been around longer, since that incident when Frances slapped Greg and Luke for spilling red paint all over her uniform, making Mycroft laugh in spite of himself. Frances knows him. Maybe not as well as Greg and Sherlock, and even Luke, but she knows enough. She might not know the reason for their parents’ separation, or that Mycroft’s the one who caused it, but she does know that it’s affecting him.

 

Her eyes drop to the phone near his hand. “Alright, which one of your father’s associates are you meeting today?” she asks, her eyes narrowing in a way that warns Mycroft not to lie to her, that he better not even _think_ about it.

 

“No one,” he says. He’s being honest. Frances relaxes a bit, but she’s still giving him that look. “I’m meeting up with Greg later. I haven’t seen him in weeks.”

 

“That’s because you haven’t gone home in weeks,” Frances retorts. She shakes her head at him, making the shorter strands of her hair swing to-and-fro. “Mycroft, you really need to stop thinking ahead of yourself and just relax.”

 

 _Easy for you to say. You don’t have to look after anyone_. She’s a bit like him, studious and responsible, but she’s got four sisters, two of them older than her, and her parents are still together and genuinely love each other. She’ll be in charge of a few of the smaller businesses her parents have once she graduates, but she’ll have help from her sisters and some of her relatives. Mycroft’s all alone. He can’t trust Sherlock to manage their father’s businesses, half of which will be in Mycroft’s charge as soon as he’s done with school. And he can’t neglect them either, because people will talk and Father will be disappointed in him. Even now, even though he wasn’t the best father in the world, Mycroft’s still afraid of making a mistake.

 

No wonder Sherlock thinks he’s pathetic.

 

“So what’s your plan for today?” Frances asks. Mycroft can read the disapproval all over her face, barely disguised by the smile she’s giving him. She doesn’t like Greg. None of his friends do. Mycroft can’t blame them. He’s honest with himself—he knows that if he hadn’t had a pre-bond with Greg when they were younger, he’d disapprove of him as well. Still, Mycroft can’t help but feel a bit angry, protective.

 

“Nowhere we haven’t been before,” he says, because if he were to name one thing Greg cannot stand, it’s being in an unfamiliar place. “How’s Juno by the way?” He doesn’t have to ask because he can read it on her. _Nail polish flaking, fingernails bitten down, hair unruly, eyes bloodshot, brown stain on the cuff of her sweater—spilled tea._

 

“She’ll live,” she says, though her smile is uncertain. “ _You_ survived pneumonia and we all know how you and your brother have the worst immune systems ever. Besides, she says she still has to work for you when she grows up.”

 

Mycroft quirks a smile. “A seven-year-old is infatuated with me. Greg won’t be pleased with that.”

 

“She did tell me she likes redheads,” Frances says, giggling. Mycroft almost joins in but his phone rings, earning him a glare from the seventy-year-old librarian behind the desk. Frances stops, replacing the mirth in her eyes with a warning look.

 

“Mycroft,” she hisses. “It’s nearly Christmas and you’ve got a date. That can wait.”

 

It can’t. There are people to talk to, businesses to invest in. Mycroft could leave the work to their relatives, could even leave it to their mother, but those aren’t options because they won’t do it as well. Mycroft ignores the disappointment in Frances’ face and picks up the phone.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s the eighteenth of December, and along with the snow came Christmas carols and the twinkle of Christmas lights. Someone is singing in the distance, a garbled rendition of Frosty the Snowman that’s making Mycroft grit his teeth. It’s faint, though; it’s just the wind carrying it. He doubts anyone’s willing to sing like that in a cemetery, Christmastime or not.

 

The polished white marble headstone he’s facing is half-covered in snow, the deceased’s name nearly covered by it. Mycroft thinks of reaching forward to brush the snow away. Moving seems out of the question, though. Nothing stirs in the cemetery—not the leafless tress, not the snow-coated headstones, and not the man beside him.

 

Finally, Ingfred moves. It’s just a tilt of the head but Mycroft takes it as an invitation to relax. He lets his shoulders slump forward slightly, lets the breath he’s been holding slowly turn to mist out of his moth. Ingfred watches him. He’s blinking slowly, as if he’s just woken. Mycroft isn’t certain if it’s jetlag or if it’s visiting his brother’s grave that’s affecting him. Both, perhaps.

 

“You never told me how he died,” Mycroft says, breaking the silence. It’s meant to be casual but he can’t help but feel curious. Father never talked about Orville’s death. Possibly, they weren’t close. Even more possible, Father was bitter about filling the role Orville was supposed to play. And Priam, well, Priam was barely even three when their older brother died. Also, Priam’s not exactly trustworthy when it comes to stories, even less with a bottle in his hand.

 

Of the three, it’s Ingfred who’s the most affected by it. The last time Mycroft saw him was on Sherlock’s bonding ceremony. He’s lived in Reykjavik ever since, and it shows from the way he doesn’t shiver in spite of the lack of a coat, unlike Mycroft who’s doing his best _not_ to tremble from the frigidity. It’s odd that the first thing he does once he stepped foot in London is visit his brother’s grave. Orville’s been dead long before Mycroft was born.

 

Ingfred doesn’t give a straight answer. “He was an idiot,” is all he says.

 

It’s difficult to maneuver a wheelchair in the snow single-handedly. Snow clings to the wheels, stopping any sudden movements. Ingfred sighs angrily before allowing Mycroft to help him.

 

“You’ll be going to the party, then,” Mycroft says as he pushes Ingfred to the car. His driver is standing outside, waiting for them. He greets them both in Urdu, smiling as he takes over and helps Ingfred in the backseat. Mycroft follows.

 

“Yes.” He frowns. His eyes are green, Mycroft notes, and he doesn’t look much like Father. His features are softer, his skin tone darker, but they make the same expressions. Priam makes the same expressions as well when he’s serious (which is rare) or when he’s working. Ingfred frowns and Mycroft sees himself and his brother. “I haven’t seen any of them for a long time.”

 

“Priam will be there,” Mycroft says, not bothering to hide the exasperation in his voice. He remembers the last time Priam attended, and Father certainly hadn’t been happy then.

 

Ingfred shakes his head. “Oh dear. Our black sheep has returned.”

 

“Wouldn’t that be you?”

 

“I always obey the rules. Little brother, on the other hand…” He makes a face before frowning once more, again lost in memory. Mycroft leans his head against the window and waits for Ingfred to talk again. He tries his best not to look at his watch, tries his best not to imagine how furious Greg will be with him for making him wait. He tries but he ends up looking anyway, catching Ingfred’s attention.

 

“Meeting someone?”

 

Mycroft hesitates then nods. “Greg,” he says. For a moment, Mycroft wonders if Ingfred even knows who Greg is. His frown deepens, his brows furrowing, and Mycroft can tell that he knows exactly who Greg is. He wonders what Ingfred will say, or if he’ll say anything at all.

 

“I shouldn’t be keeping you, then,” is what he ends up saying and before Mycroft can say anything, he shuts Mycroft out. His eyes close and he turns his head slightly so that he’s facing the window. The rest of the ride is silent, neither awkward nor tense. It’s just a long pause that makes Mycroft think of forever.

 

* * *

 

 

 “Don’t even bother,” Greg tells him. “I knew it already.”

 

Greg’s stare isn’t accusing or angry or even remotely annoyed. He just looks weary, like anyone who’s been sitting alone at a table for far too long. Mycroft takes a seat opposite him, frowning to himself when Greg pushes his plate toward him in offering. “No thanks,” he says. Honestly, though, he’s hungry. Starving, Mycroft corrects when his stomach growls a plea, realizing that the last meal he ate was a hurried breakfast at six in the morning. It’s already past eight in the evening.

 

Greg quirks an eyebrow at him. “You sure?”

 

He nods. There’s no way he’s going to eat Greg’s food, not after making him wait for nearly an hour and a half. “So who’d you see?” Greg asks, picking up the last bit of the sandwich and taking a bite. “Another one of your dad’s associates?”

 

“Ingfred,” Mycroft answers. “My uncle, the older one. He just got back from Reykjavik.”

 

“Is he dangerous?” Greg asks, rolling his eyes in amusement. It isn’t funny, but Mycroft still tries a smile for his sake. Greg doesn’t get it, doesn’t get how his family can tear him apart without raising their finger. He can divide them easily in two groups: people safe to interact with, people Greg should stay away from. Priam is and Greg would love him, Mycroft thinks, would probably even go and have a drink with him. They met before, three times to be exact. The first when Sherlock was born, the second during his and Greg’s bonding ceremony, and the third during John and Sherlock’s. Priam would tease the two of them, would probably tell them that he’s indebted to them for doing the injection and making them bond in the first place. If he stays sober long enough, he’ll probably tell him.

 

Ingfred…Mycroft isn’t sure about Ingfred. Priam is much younger, Ingfred’s only a year younger than Father. Besides that, Mycroft doesn’t really know him. He knows a bit, but since most of the information came from Father, it’s probably biased as Father hates Ingfred. “You’ll have to rephrase the question,” he answers. Greg laughs.

 

“You’re so serious, My. It’s just a Christmas party and I’ve been attending it for eleven years.”

 

“It’s different this time.” It comes out quiet, dead, like remnants from his visit to his dead uncle’s grave. Greg cocks his head to one side, the way he does when he’s confused or thinking of a solution to a problem. And then he stands up, the legs of his chair screeching as he pushes it back, and in a second he’s sitting beside Mycroft.

 

“Idiot,” Greg says fondly. Something in his voice brings a sickly-sweet feeling to Mycroft’s chest. Greg moves close, close enough for his features to blur. “What? I’m too boring now to distract you from all your icky relatives?”

 

He kisses him quickly, and Mycroft tries to control the unease building in his stomach because they’re in public and they just don’t do that. His hair tickles Mycroft’s face. It’s blue again, a darker, more respectable shade. Still, Mycroft can’t help but think of how the others will react.

 

“Greg,” he starts.

 

Greg sighs, sinks a little in himself, then says, “Yeah, I know. I’ll dye it tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

 

The manor is more than big enough to house them, but Mycroft can’t help but feel trapped. Sherlock feels the same way, too. They don’t talk about it, but it’s obvious. Sherlock’s been adjusting his tie in front of the mirror for the past fifteen minutes, the scowl on his face showing no sign of fading. “Let me,” Mycroft says but Sherlock pulls away from his grasp with a muttered curse, opting to have John help him than let Mycroft do it even though John’s as competent with formal wear as he is with table etiquette.

 

“Your mum will be looking for us,” John reminds them. He brushes Sherlock’s hair back from his forehead, ignoring the snarl he receives for doing so.

 

John doesn’t bother to hide the disapproval in his face as he wraps his hand around Sherlock’s. It’s something they have to do when presenting themselves to their relatives, and Mycroft feels a little guilty every time he sees the discomfort in their faces. Sherlock makes a face but doesn’t fight it, only tightens his grip on John’s fingers as he pulls him out of the room.

 

“I’m going to drown myself in punch,” Luke announces. His tie is askew and he’s kept one of his piercings but at least he looks presentable. He bites at the edge of his sentinel ring, a bad habit that no one has ever gotten him to quit. Mycroft’s long given up on telling him to stop it. It’s not like he can even hide it. “This party’s going to be a bore.”

 

Greg rolls his eyes and mutters something to him. His hair’s too dark now, darker than his natural color, but at least it doesn’t scream at people to pay attention to it. It’s not any better than the blue hair, in Mycroft’s opinion, but at least Greg made the effort. He leans in close, presses his mouth against Greg’s temple when Luke’s facing the other way, earning a small grin for his efforts.

 

Greg doesn’t really have to do much. His job is to talk when needed and to keep Luke in check as much as possible. Mycroft wants to hide him, keep him in a room until everyone leaves. He doesn’t say it, though, because it’s unacceptable and Greg will be furious with him, will probably complain about Mycroft not trusting him. It isn’t that. Mycroft trusts him quite a lot. It’s just that, he doesn’t trust him with his relatives.

 

A hand grips his shoulder, spinning him around and forcing him to lose his hold on Greg.

 

Mycroft doesn’t always use metaphors or similes, but there’s no denying that Priam smiles like the sun. It’s a big smile, his mouth stretched wide to reveal toothpaste commercial worthy teeth. He still smells of antiseptic and cleaning products, which means he hasn’t found the punch yet.

 

“How’s it going, Mikey?” he asks.

 

“Fine.” Mycroft doesn’t know what so say after that. Priam’s far from being his favorite relative. He’s far from being anyone’s favorite, really, ever since that brief stint of being disowned during his early adolescence. Rejecting your pre-bond then going off to do god-knows-what can turn you into a social pariah. It’s their duty to act appropriately, to accept your pre-bond, to have kids, etc. Priam never did those things. Priam doesn’t care. Or, to quote Father, “Priam doesn’t give a shit about anything.”

 

“That’s what we do,” Mycroft responds to Priam’s banal comment of growing up while he was away. He doesn’t understand why relatives keep saying that. Of course he grew up. It’s not exactly rocket science. He locks his fingers around Greg’s once more, silently telling him to pay attention. “Not busy today?”

 

“Hmm? Nah, thought I deserved a break. The hospital can take care of itself for a while. I plan on getting shit drunk.” He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, like a child caught doing something wrong. His eyes slide to Greg who immediately straightens and puts on a smile that looks only slightly forced. The commercial smile returns to Priam’s face. “Greg, right?”

 

Greg nods. It’s a bit stiff. Mycroft looks at his uncle’s face and sees the thought form his eyes. Mycroft thinks of stopping him, but there’s no way he can say ‘no’. “You don’t mind if I steal him from you?” Priam asks him, mischievous now as he hooks an arm around Greg’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything. I need someone to joke around with before I face Ing.”

 

Greg stares at him, questioning. _Stop it. Don’t touch him._

 “Don’t get him drunk,” Mycroft says and Priam laughs and tells him again not to worry, that he’s just killing time. Greg raises a hand in farewell before Priam tugs him aside. Mycroft watches as Greg pulls away, enough for him grab Luke who’s been flirting with one of his mother’s nieces for the past ten minutes.

 

Mycroft turns away to face one of his aunts.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Mycroft searches his face, over all the features made familiar by the strong family resemblance, and thinks that if the sincerity in his voice is doubtful, it still shows in the set of his mouth and the crease between his brows. Mycroft tries to be nonchalant and shrugs, but it’s less smooth than he wants. “It’s not your fault,” he says, and it isn’t. It’s Mycroft’s fault. He wanted it to happen, anyway.

 

At least, this is what he believes.

 

Ingfred traces his finger over the rim of his wineglass. “I’m sorry, still.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“You really shouldn’t blame yourself.”

 

He sounds miserable and Mycroft doesn’t even know why. It angers him a little but he controls it. Ingfred looks at him and shakes his head. “You’re quite unlike Siger.”

 

The comment weighs Mycroft down like a sack of bricks. It shouldn’t hurt but it does, somehow.

 

“It’s a good thing,” Ingfred mutters, irritated. He sets the wineglass down. “You idolize him too much.”

 

“Should I not?”

 

“No. Yes.” Ingfred shrugs. “For me, no.”

 

He sighs angrily then returns to the form he’s been working on for the past ten minutes. Mycroft cranes his neck to read it but it’s in a language that’s unfamiliar to him. Whatever it is, it must be important enough for Ingfred to avoid the party altogether by holing up in Father’s office. Behind him, Mycroft can see an old photograph of the four of them as children. His father is beaming at the camera, one arm around a young Ingfred who isn’t bound to the wheelchair yet. The happy, care-free smile of his father makes him uncomfortable, like it isn’t something he should look at. He avoids looking at it as much as possible.

 

“I was thinking,” Ingfred begins, his pen pausing over the slightly wrinkled paper before him, “I was thinking about The Diogenes Club. About handing it to you I mean.”

 

Mycroft blinks. “That’s yours.”

 

“It’s not like I can even handle it anymore,” Ingfred admits. “I hate staying in London.”

 

Mycroft thinks about the responsibility of handling it and tenses. He thinks about school and Sherlock and all those people he has to get to know. “I’m not sure,” he says. “I’m a bit busy.”

 

“It’s a good place,” Ingfred says. He’s not exactly pushing, just being sincere. “You loved going there when you were little.”

 

He doesn’t remember much about it, only that it’s a quiet place where you’re not allowed to talk. Sherlock’s not allowed there.

 

“I’ll think about it,” he says instead of the ‘yes’ that’s on the tip of his tongue. Ingfred smiles at him, looking a lot like his little brother for a second.

 

“You know, it was Sig who disowned Priam, not our father.” He’s already folding the form and tucking it in the front pocket of his coat. “And people always say Sherlock takes after Priam.”

 

Mycroft stares at him, waiting.

 

“If Sherlock ever does something horrible, you wouldn’t disown him, Mycroft. You’d help him.” Ingfred smiles sadly. “That’s why you’re not like your father.”

 

He isn’t sure if it’s a compliment or not—his family usually says things that can trick the mind, the heart. “And you? If it was up to you, would you have done it?” Mycroft asks carefully. He sees it now. He’s not Father, nor is he Priam. He’s a bit like Ingfred, or rather, he’ll be like Ingfred if he makes the wrong decisions. There’s something like regret in Ingfred’s eyes when he shakes his head and tells him the opposite of what Mycroft was hoping to hear.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a side story in a young Ingfred's POV. It's not really connected to either Venn or TNK but it will explain why their father behaved that way and (because some were curious) how he met John's father. Actually, if you're interested in some of the OC's presented in both Venn and TNK, I can write a side story for them.
> 
> Oh yeah, guess who Juno is.


	10. Guilty

Sherlock tips the wineglass back and drinks the rest of the champagne in one go, smiling triumphantly as he sets it down. “I can drink more,” he says, his eyes challenging Priam to argue. Greg has no doubt he can drink more. They’re used to drinking during social events. “It’s a necessity,” his mother told him when he was too young to appreciate the taste of blackberry wine and whisky. It becomes an excuse to drown himself in drink when things get too boring. It’s not a suitable excuse when he’s drinking outside of a suit.

 

Priam brushes his lips on the top of Sherlock’s head. It’s oddly affectionate and Greg finds himself staring at the bottom of his empty glass, trying to ignore the two of them. “I know you can,” Priam tells him gently, “but no more—your mother will have my head if I let you get drunk.”

 

Greg can see John in his peripheral vision. He’s uncomfortable and it shows. In fact, he’s not even bothering to be more subtle. He keeps tugging on his tie, keeps tapping his foot to an unsteady rhythm. He sits opposite Greg, squashed in the loveseat which is also occupied by Sherlock and his uncle. He looks at Greg, brows raised comically, but his smiled is tight-lipped and crooked, quite unlike his usual ones.

 

Luke, on the other hand, is the complete opposite of John. He has an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth and a glass of scotch in one hand. The drink spills every now and then because Luke keeps moving his hand to-and-fro. He’s bored. Greg can see it from the way he keeps scratching on the arm of the sofa. Wordlessly, Greg nudges his leg with his foot. Luke straightens, gives him a defiant stare, then scratches even harder.

 

“…the mortuary,” Priam is saying. Sherlock is standing up and John quickly follows, looking far too relieved to be polite. He accidentally jostles Sherlock but the younger boy doesn’t even notice. He’s grinning madly and Greg feels that if Priam weren’t there, he’d actually jump for joy.

 

“Really?”

 

“On your birthday,” Priam promises with another warm smile. He looks over shoulder at the well-dressed crowd milling about. “Now run along and go bother your Aunt Deidre for me.”

 

“Cigarette,” Priam demands as soon as Sherlock has dragged John towards a fat woman dressed from head to toe in purple. Luke blinks owlishly at him. “Give me a damn cigarette,” he repeats.

 

The cold does little to hide the strong scent of expensive cigarettes that wafts in the air. A refined-looking woman in her early fifties gives Priam a disapproving glare that does not go ignored. “Bitch,” Priam says under his breath, beaming at the woman as she passes by. Another one of Sherlock’s relatives, a boy around John’s age, looks at Priam fearfully before whispering something to his friend that has them dissolve into raucous laughter. Greg doesn’t need to be as intelligent as the Holmeses to get it. Priam isn’t welcome here.

 

The glow from the end of his cigarette casts shadows on his face, making his cheekbones more pronounced and his hair even redder. It makes Priam look intimidating, quite unlike the enthusiastic man who greeted them half an hour ago. Greg’s eyes fall on the pale column of his throat. The unmarred skin catches him by surprise. Priam isn't bonded, doesn't even seem to be attached to anyone at the moment. He catches Greg staring and frowns. “Don’t give me that look,” he admonishes. “Some doctors smoke. Having a medical degree doesn’t strip you of your humanity.”

 

His eyes land on Luke who immediately tenses under Priam’s stare. Strange, Greg thinks. Luke doesn’t get nervous, would rather stick his middle finger in the air than balk at a threatening presence. There’s something there, something Greg can’t quite catch. But then Priam’s smiling, a flash of white teeth in a freckled face, and then he says, “Lucas, go back in please. I need a word with Greg.”

 

Luke doesn’t hesitate. He squeezes Greg’s shoulder reassuringly then walks back into the house. Greg wants to follow but he can't out of politeness and maybe out of fear as well. “Your friend’s a train wreck waiting to happen,” Priam warns him. The tone of his voice is knowing and more than a little smug. It doesn’t fail to annoy Greg. "You ought to keep an eye on him."

 

"It's his job to look after me. Technically."

 

Priam shrugs. “I’d fire him.”

 

Greg doesn’t argue, because it’s the truth anyway, laid out bare before him. He’d avoid it if he could. In fact, he’d avoid a lot of truths if he could.

 

It doesn’t work like that.

 

There’s a bench nearby. Priam takes a seat and Greg follows, keeping a respectful distance. Across them sits a girl who’s undeniably from Sherlock’s mother’s side of the family. Her black hair is tied up with a long red ribbon that stands out against her pale shoulders. She glances at them before lighting another cigarette.

 

Greg turns to Priam who’s taken out a somewhat squashed cigarette from the front pocket of his suit. His eyes fall on his throat once more. It hits him that beneath the smell of cigarettes and champagne, Priam smells like Alpha and Alpha only, something his olfactory sense must find alarming. It’s the only explanation he can find as to why he blurts, “You’re not bonded.”

 

Priam drags his feet toward him, leaving two long tracks in the snow. Beneath, the grass shows, yellow-brown and brittle. Greg wonders if it’s too personal an observation. He opens his mouth to apologize but Priam beats him to it. “No, I’m not,” he confirms. He rips apart the cigarette in his hands, the nicotine staining his fingers in a color that looks eerily like dried blood under the soft glow of the garden lights.

 

Greg doesn’t bother to hide his curiosity. It isn’t impolite to pry, he thinks, when with Priam. He doesn’t seem like a private person, quite the opposite of Mycroft’s other uncle. ‘The cripple’ an old man had said harshly, laughing when Ingfred left the room with Mycroft. The memory sickens him slightly so he shakes the thought away. “You had a pre-bond, then?” he asks even though he knows the answer. Mycroft did tell him about Priam rejecting it, about his older brother throwing him out for doing so. Priam raises an eyebrow. Then he throws his head back and laughs.

 

“My god, no wonder my nephews like you.” He grins. His front tooth is chipped, Greg notices. “You’re a mixture of polite and rude, aren’t you?”

 

Greg feels his face grow warm. He should know better than to pry. He may have offended him and he wonders what that says about him, what Mycroft’s mother might say. “Oh, sorry, I thought—”

 

“Whatever,” Priam cuts off, the tone of his voice suggesting that he really doesn’t mind. “You’d love to hear it, though. Your curiosity’s blatant.”

 

“You’re a Holmes,” Greg retorts in spite of himself. “Of course it’s obvious to you.”

 

Priam laughs at this. It’s a nice laugh, rebelliously joyful in a place full of serious people. It reminds him of Mycroft’s laugh when they’re alone, when Mycroft doesn’t have to play his role as the eldest son of Siger Holmes.

 

“I ran away when I was fifteen,” Priam starts, voice somber now. He’s looking straight ahead, almost as if he’s forgotten all about Greg. “I just go sick of it—sick of our parents, sick of my brothers, sick of the lifestyle. I didn’t want to bond with anyone and I still don’t. I just packed up a bag and left. Ing tried to stop me of course but I forced him to let me go. A few days after that, my bank account was emptied and I found myself doing odd jobs just to keep myself going. Siger didn’t really disown me—I disowned myself.

 

“Sig gave up on me but Ing kept trying. I doubt he even really cared—just wanted to stop having a black sheep for a brother, I think. Two years later, both my folks died and I guess I just got sick of avoiding them. Point is, I can’t deny that I’m part of the family. But at least I got to be independent thanks to that stint. Even got a medical license.” Priam snorts. “Mother would have been proud. Siger definitely was. For a while.”

 

His tone is mocking and more than a little bitter. It’s nothing like how Sherlock talks about Mycroft. There’s no trace of fondness in his voice, just a deep burning hatred. “You dislike him,” Greg says, purposefully using a less harsh term. The image of Sherlock with Priam pops in his mind, confusing him. It must show on his face because Priam’s shaking his head.

 

“Just because Sig’s a dick, doesn’t mean I have any reason to hate his kids.” He scratches his neck idly, once more bringing attention to the flawless skin. “As you can see, I don’t have kids of my own. Ing doesn’t, either. Or rather, he can’t—that’s why he never bonded. So those two are pretty spoiled between us.” A shadow crosses his face. “I worry about Mycroft, though. And I worry about you, too, I guess.”

 

Greg blinks, surprised. “Me?”

 

Priam shrugs. He doesn’t look like he’s joking which Greg thinks is even worse. He looks away from him, at the girl still smoking her cigarette.

 

“You know, the thing about pre-bonds is, they have disadvantages as well.”

 

Greg scowls. “I know that.” And he does, he’s not lying. He knows the risks, knows how it makes you more than a little dependent on the person you have it with. It could either be the best arrangement for the both of you, or the most detached relationship ever. It’s why Mycroft worries about Sherlock and John who can hardly stay in a room together long enough without shouting at each other.

 

“Oh?” He sounds disbelieving and somehow that simple ‘oh’ allows doubt to creep into his chest. “Greg, tell me, honestly.” There’s a pause. Greg can feel Priam staring at him, waiting. Slowly, he allows his posture to relax, silently telling him to go on.

 

“If you don’t have Mycroft, then where does that leave you?”

 

And there it is, one of his fears thrown into his face. Greg bites his lip and doesn’t even try to answer the question. He ducks his head and lets his shoulders slump forward, trying to project that he’s not interested in entertaining the question. The thing is, he can’t even think about what his life would be like if he never met Mycroft because Mycroft is always there, encompassed in his every being, so much that just the thought of Mycroft gone actually hurts. The dependency scares him. He often wonders if Mycroft even feels the same. If it’s normal.

 

“Look,” Priam says gently, “I’m not saying you’re not good enough for my nephew and I don’t doubt how you feel about him. It’s just…” He trails off, his eyes momentarily clouding with memory. “It’s just that you should be independent.”

 

Greg scoffs at that. “I am independent. I don’t let Mycroft walk all over me.”

 

“It’s not that,” Priam argues. He sighs. It sounds weary, sounds like Priam’s been weary for years. “Greg, do you even _know_ our family?”

 

Greg doesn’t reply. Priam takes it as a sign to go on. He turns to the girl smoking and puts on an affable smile when the girl takes her phone out of her clutch. “Going to call your brother?” he asks cheerfully. “I’m going to have to tell Fyodor not to give you any more drugs.”

 

Silence falls. Greg stares at them, at the girl. She’s younger than he first thought, he realizes, his heart skipping a beat when he sees that underneath the makeup, she can’t be more than thirteen. He’s not one to talk, he knows. He started smoking at thirteen but he’s never even thought about doing more than that. The girl puts out her cigarette and stares at Priam coldly.

 

“I can get my own fucking drugs,” she says as she stands up, leaving Greg to stare after her in surprise.

 

“You’re a doctor,” he says to Priam. He’s lighting another cigarette, not even the least fazed about what happened. It almost looks like it’s normal. It is, Greg realizes. “Why don’t you do anything about it?”

 

“Because it’s not my problem. It’s not anyone’s problem until the media exposes it,” Priam says matter-of-factly. “And that Greg—that’s what our family’s like.”

 

 _Do you want to spend the rest of your life with that?_ Priam doesn’t say the words out loud but Greg can hear them in his own head, can see it in the way Priam narrows his eyes at him.

 

“Yes,” Greg says before the word ‘no’ can even come up as an option. Mycroft is different and Sherlock is different and Greg knows who they really are. At the end of the day, that’s all that really matters really.

 

“Yes,” he says again and Priam smiles at him warmly.

 

* * *

 

 

“You’ll be staying the night, darling?”

 

His mother’s look is sly and it embarrasses him more than the kiss she plants on his cheek. Beside him Mycroft exchanges pleasantries with his father who merely grunts back his replies.

 

“If you don’t mind,” Greg says, even though he knows that his mother won’t. She probably even encourages that he sleep in Mycroft’s room. They don’t talk about it but it’s no secret that he occasionally sleeps with Mycroft if the pills she dropped in his hand one morning is something to go by. His mother isn’t one to talk, anyway. If Luke’s mother is to be believed, his mum had a bit of a reputation when she was his age. Greg thinks she’s just amused that he’s sleeping with the same guy he once complained was a posh and boring know-it-all.

 

Mycroft kisses him later, after everyone has left and after Mycroft has carried a slightly intoxicated Sherlock to his room, leaving Greg to see that John and his family are settled in their respective guest rooms. They’ll be gone by tomorrow, off to their hometown in Scotland, long before Greg will have woken.

 

Mycroft kisses him in the darkness of his room, his mouth sliding over Greg’s, soft and gentle, and somehow still polite, which makes Greg think that if Mycroft were to fuck him in front of his whole family, he’ll still be able to make it look like he’s being a gentleman. The thought threatens to make him laugh but his breath catches when Mycroft drags his mouth across his jaw to nip at the side of his neck.

 

“I love you.”

 

It’s not a revelation because he’s always known this, always felt it, Greg thinks, even when they were kids and the thought of kissing Mycroft was more repulsing than pleasant. He always says it, anyway. “I love you” after sex, before sex, and sometimes even at just the mention of sex. “I love you” to annoy Sherlock, who always pretends to vomit when he hears it spoken, his face crumpling like he’s swallowed a lemon.

 

Greg says it again, just to confirm it to himself. Priam is wrong, he thinks as Mycroft’s weight presses him into the matress, and as he kisses him and kisses him and kisses him until their mouths taste the same. Priam is wrong. Greg wouldn’t mind doing this for the rest of his life.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, Priam isn't evil. He's only reminding Greg that he can back out any time he wants to. 
> 
> I am, however, going to cause some shit next chapter. It's going to be so horrible, I promise.


	11. To Feed on Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The everyone-hates-Greg-Lestrade chapter because that seldom happens in fics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone once asked me in TNK if Greg and Mycroft ever have problems in their relationship. Since I skipped years in the first part of the series which focuses more on John and Sherlock, anyway, no one really sees that their relationship is a bit fucked up. I'm sorry, I can't help it, I like messing with fictional people.

It starts off simply.

 

It starts off with Greg accidentally spilling coffee on the edge of some paperwork Mycroft’s doing, and the next thing he knows Mycroft is shouting at him, which is so uncharacteristic for him that it would have taken Greg by surprise if not for the obvious signs that Mycroft’s been on edge for weeks. It escalates into a fight that has Greg gritting his teeth and fighting the urge to slam a fist in Mycroft’s face. It escalates into the kind of fight where you forget what started it. They’re arguing about something else now, and Greg has just had it because Mycroft’s words sting. He’s good at that in fights, knows exactly what to say to have you boiling mad. He’s about to hit him, he really is, when the doors opens a crack and John peeps in nervously. Sherlock is pressed against his back, trying to look over his shoulder while John pushes him back.

 

“Uncle’s on the phone,” Sherlock pipes, eyeing the two of them curiously. He turns to Greg. “And your stupid cousin’s waiting outside.”

 

Mycroft doesn’t even spare him a glance when he leaves the room. Greg expected it but it still manages to hurt. Sherlock has successfully pushed past John and is now standing in the middle of the room, taking it all in it seems when his eyes jump to the mug on the floor and to the growing stain on the carpet.

 

“Sher, let’s go,” John says quietly. The tentative note in his voice makes Greg aware of himself and of the curious, almost accusing stare Sherlock is giving him.

 

“Nah, I’ll leave.” He smiles to show that everything’s okay. Sherlock frowns at him, not believing it for one second. He curses the brothers’ perceptiveness, but when he sees John mirroring Sherlock’s expression he realizes that it’s just him.

 

“Say goodbye to your brother for me.”

 

Outside, he’s fuming still and dying for a cigarette or two. A glance up at Siger Holmes’ old study shows him a clear view of Mycroft, his back to him as he talks on the phone. All he cares about is his fucking family, Greg thinks bitterly as he sends a pebble flying down the driveway. It’s true, though, and Mycroft showed it a while ago. Hell, he always shows it, always standing Greg up in favour of doing one of his uncle’s biddings.

 

“Fucking Mycroft.”

 

Old Jules looks up from the hedge he’s trimming.  He wipes the sweat from his face then peers at Greg, studying him.

 

“Are you alright, Mr Lestrade?” he asks in a voice that’s clearly prompting him to shake his head and tell the head gardener what happened. He settles for a ‘yes’ instead while mentally telling himself to pull it together. It’s not as if this is their first fight—he shouldn’t let it affect him so much. Even Jules noticed and everyone knows his eyesight’s not so good.

 

“I’m fine,” he lies, the words slipping out of his mouth easily. For a second, he even believes it to be true. “Have you seen Luke?”

 

Greg’s directed to go to the pond. He finds Luke leaning against a tree, casually throwing cigarette butts at a couple of pigeons, some of which are actually gobbling them up. “It’s good for them,” Luke drawls when Greg quirks an eyebrow. He makes the mistake of not replying with a sarcastic remark because Luke’s adopting that I’m-concerned-about-you face. “Lovers’ tiff? You alright?”

 

“None of your concern,” Greg says quickly. He doesn’t want Luke badmouthing Mycroft today. It always makes him feel a little guilty and always leaves a bad taste in his mouth, especially when Mycroft calls to apologize. Luke narrows his eyes but doesn’t comment on it. He kicks at a cigarette butt.

 

“So…we’re still going to London, then?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Okay.” Luke nods his head and smiles to himself. “Good, that’s good.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You look like shit,” Chuck tells them. “Both of you.”

 

“Don’t sleep much,” Greg admits at the same time Luke says, “Don’t eat much.” A grin begins to pull at his mouth but when he turns his head he sees that Luke isn’t even paying attention to him.

 

The whole train ride was like sitting next to a stranger, and it hits Greg that, yes, there is definitely something off about Luke. Greg stares and can’t help but notice the hollows in his temples and how his skin is dry and pasty-looking.  _You alright?_  He almost asks before remembering that Luke asked him the same question a while ago and he didn’t say anything. It all comes down to three things: Luke has a problem, Greg has a problem, and both of them are going to ignore it for the time-being.

 

Chuck is oblivious to it. Chuck is currently oblivious to everything that isn’t the state of his flat. It’s a cheap, slightly rundown two-bedroom flat with a strip of a terrace that overlooks the grey-faced walls of other buildings. It would be bigger but the whole place is covered in potted plants. The floor is dusted with loamy soil that sticks to the soles of Chuck’s feet as he moves to the sofa. A long leaf from the plant nearest to the sofa pokes the back of his neck and clings to the collar of his shirt. The whole place makes Greg feel like he’s still in the Holmeses’ backyard. “Sorry,” Chuck says when Greg nearly steps on Mortimer. “I’m not sure what Annika’s trying to achieve by letting him out of his tank.”

 

“I think your girlfriend’s trying to convert you into a Flower Child,” Luke says dryly. He grabs one end of Mortimer then rests the snake over his shoulders like a scarf. “How on earth are you going to throw a party here? I can barely move without a plant feeling me up every now and then.”

 

“We’ll manage,” Chuck says. He flicks a leaf away from his face. “I’ll just…clean it up a bit. I think.”

 

“Mate, you’ve got, like, a shitload of things to clean here.”

 

“As if anyone will really care once they’ve had too much to drink.”

 

Greg doesn’t trust himself to speak. He can’t help but envy Chuck whose parents are so laid-back they don’t care that he’s not immediately going to uni, nor that he’s spending his time in his own hippie flat without anyone breathing down his neck. He’s never going to do this, he realizes, because even though his parents don’t really where he ends up as long as he’s healthy, happy, and according to his mother, has clean underwear, he’s already tied to Mycroft’s family.

 

Luke sets Mortimer in his tank then moves to the kitchen. Greg waits until he’s out of earshot before he plops down on the sofa and says, “Luke’s acting weird.”

 

Chuck frowns, glances at the direction where Luke disappeared, then shakes his head. His hair is growing out of the buzz cut and the ends stick out even more, giving him the impression of a pineapple. “No, he’s not. Is it the slightly-turned-corpse look? Mate, Luke gets like this, remember? It’s just his ADHD acting up, making him all depressed and shit. It’s nothing to worry about. Just take him to a night club and he’ll be an annoying berk again.”

 

Greg doesn’t argue that Luke hasn’t gotten like this since they were fourteen because it’s clear that Chuck won’t get it. “Actually,” he says, looking away so that his eyes are trained on Mortimer who’s hissing at them from the safety of his tank, “you’re acting weird, too. You have that face on.”

 

Greg automatically schools his expression into the I-don’t-know-what-the-hell-you’re-talking-about-so-I’ll-just-smile-and-try-to-look-like-I’m-not-panicking face that he always reserves for teachers and Mycroft’s family. “What face?”

 

“The one where you pretend everything’s alright. Are you and Mycroft okay?”

 

“Of course we are.” The answer leaps out of his mouth without a second’s thought but the shadow that crosses Chuck’s face tells him that it isn’t enough.

 

“You know, you guys are real jerks,” he mutters. “I’m not stupid, I can tell when you’re lying to me. Besides, this thing I have with Annika—I guess it just makes me aware of other people’s relationships and, well, you and Mycroft look far from fine. Your face shows it, mate.”

 

Greg huffs. “We had a fight. Just one fight. It’s nothing.”

 

“Yeah, right.”

 

“Chuck,  _leave it_.”

 

Chuck scowls but doesn’t push it. He never does which makes arguments with Chuck easy to win. They sit there in uncomfortable silence until Luke sweeps in the room and plants his arse in front of the telly. “I’m hungry,” he says as he flips the channel to MTV. “Got anything to eat here other than tomatoes?”

 

None of them knows how to cook anything other than gooey pasta with too much cheese and weirdly chopped onions that look less like onions and more like slightly burned fingernails. Appearances aside, it's actually more than just edible and the fact that Greg finds himself liking the meal is worrying. “I’m ordering pizza later,” Chuck assures them. “And I’m not cooking anything for those bastards. Half of them I probably won’t even know.”

 

No one washes the dishes either because Luke can’t be trusted with household chores, Chuck claims that Annika says he never does it right (part of growing up in a family with people to do things for you strips you of the ability to master the art of domesticity), and Greg is too freaked out by the green moss thing growing on the wall behind the tap. Chuck’s right about Annika, anyway, because when she arrives about an hour later, she does the dishes right after greeting them. Good catch, Greg thinks with a small smile at Chuck who beams proudly then scowls when he’s ordered to dry the dishes.

 

It’s weird to watch the two of them, to watch Chuck, rather and Greg realizes that he’s been spending too much of his time with the Holmeses because Luke seems used to this. Chuck and Annika are the evidence because the last thing Greg remembers about his friend’s girlfriend is that she smells of evergreens and ivory soap and that she was wearing an orange wrap dress when Chuck introduced her to them months ago. He’s positive that if he blinks, he’ll skip five years, those two will already be married with a baby in the picture, and he won’t even know how they moved from here to there.

 

It’s a good thing that Annika is unaware that Greg doesn’t know much about her. She’s nice and pretty but she never really striked Greg as Chuck’s type, though that’s probably changed sometime after their sixteenth birthdays. He never really thought Chuck would have a relationship with an Omega. Beta-Omega couples are unusual due to low birthplaces and the fact that an Alpha can sweep in anytime. It’s why Greg’s an only child after all.

 

“You should have brought your boyfriend, Greg,” Annika says. “What’s his name again?”

 

“Mycroft? Nah, he doesn’t go to these kinds of parties.” He can’t even imagine it even though it already happened once during Luke’s birthday. Greg had to be there but he couldn’t really be left alone for too long because he was still adjusting to his new suppressants, the ones that made him weak and tired the first three times he used them, and he attracted far too much attention. Luke had said that he’d been like a lamb with a broken leg, a comment that Mycroft was none too pleased about and that had Greg tackling him to the ground.

 

“Yeah, but still.” She looks past Greg and smiles fondly at the sight of Chuck and Luke arguing as they haul beer crates out of the kitchen. Greg bites his tongue and doesn’t tell her that it might not be like that forever, that just because things are great now doesn’t mean they always will be. He thinks about the frequent fights with Mycroft and that weird feeling of being suffocated whenever he’s in the manor. He thinks about what Priam said nearly half a year ago.

 

The thing is, he’s not entirely sure if he was honest with that ‘yes’. The thing is, it’s hard to be sure about anything when you wake up and really think about a future that’s already laid bare before you.

 

The thing is, he’s not sure if he even really loves Mycroft anymore.

 

Greg’s not sure what’s happening but he knows that it’s not just him, that Mycroft’s probably feeling the same way because neither of them can stand being in a room together for too long. It’s as if they both want to get away and every little thing they do gets on the other’s nerves. He doesn’t want to talk to his parents about it and Luke definitely isn’t an option because Chuck’s wrong—Luke’s acting weird. The only option he has is Priam but how awkward would that be? He can just imagine himself walking in the hospital, seeking Priam’s advice, and all Priam will tell him is, “Well, kid, I told you so.”

 

Not happening, then.

 

* * *

 

People start coming at around eight-thirty, literally just minutes before everything breakable and of value (save for Mortimer’s tank and Mortimer himself) is hidden in the spare bedroom. Chuck is correct about not knowing half of his guests because Greg spots only a couple of people he knows from school and strangers-turned-friends who they met in pubs. “Jurassic Park much, bro?” a wide-eyed blond with an Irish brogue says to Chuck, his left hand currently dipped in the loamy soil of a fern. Annika frowns at this but doesn’t voice out her complaint. She does, however, loudly announce that if anyone breaks anything, she’ll set Mortimer loose.

 

It’s not a big flat but Greg still manages to lose Luke in the sea of people pouring in through the door. A girl of Oriental descent hooks an arm around his neck to plant a wet kiss on the curve of his cheekbone before moving on to another victim.

 

Someone—a kid, really, and he can’t help but think of Sherlock’s thirteen-year-old cocaine-user cousin—slips a lukewarm beer in his hand. He takes a sip and tries not to knock into anyone. He fails, though, because someone stumbles and hits his back, creating a domino effect that has him falling over the unfortunate bloke in front of him. “Sorry, man,” he says. The beer is sticky on his fingers and the front of his shirt. “I didn’t mean to—”

 

“Greg?”

 

He hasn’t seen Paul in a year, and the sight of his familiar face just breaks the twelve-year-old out of Greg because that’s the only explanation he can give as to why he wraps his arms around Paul tightly. Paul doesn’t seem to mind, though, because he laughs and ruffles Greg’s hair harshly. “You fuck!” he yells when he steps back. “I can’t believe you’re here, you bastard. Where’d you go?”

 

“Can’t you tell?”

 

Greg stares at him. He notices the little things first (the tan of Paul’s skin, the revival of his accent, the lack of piercings) before he zeroes in on the little mark on the side of Paul’s throat. “Shit,” he says, “fuck, when did that happen?”

 

“Month after I went back to L’Aquila,” Paul tells him, smiling in a way that startles Greg because it’s so unlike Paul to smile like that. It’s the blinking thing again, though he can’t blame himself because Paul actually left. “I did tell you guys I have a girlfriend.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“What have you guys been doing while I was away?” Paul surveys the room, smiling a little when someone turns on the radio and David Bowie’s voice threatens to drown them. “Where’s Luke?”

 

“Beats me,” Greg says.

 

 Paul nods. He’s looking at Greg again and Greg just knows that he’s about to ask where Mycroft is. You’re being a dick, a voice in his head says. But Greg mentally tells it to shut up. He’s at a party and for once, he can’t do anything wrong because no one’s watching him and waiting for him to make a mistake. He grabs a beer instead and passes one to Paul.

 

“Welcome back. Now let’s get shit drunk.”

 

* * *

 

 Luke’s bent over the sink, doing lines, and Greg’s thought process screeches to a halt, all of the alcohol draining out of his system in a second.

 

“Luke.”

 

Luke lifts his head and turns to him, eyes blurred for a moment before panic settles in his pupils. He opens his mouth to say something. It’s Greg’s name, shaped in the outline of his mouth, but he isn’t able to say it out loud because Greg pulls his arm back and slams his fist in Luke’s face.

 

His knuckles catches him on the left side of his face, and Greg can almost feel the way Luke’s teeth cut through the inside of his cheek. Luke falls on his back, howling in pain, his hands covering his face. There’s blood trickling through his fingers and he’s keening, a high-pitched sound that sends a chill down Greg’s spine.

 

Later, he’ll see his mistake. It’s his mind going _Luke is hurt, Luke should be not hurt_ that gets to him because it makes him forget that Luke isn’t exactly the Luke he knows at that moment.

 

He offers him a hand and when Luke grabs it, Greg feels a bit of relief before Luke catches him by surprise and slams him against the medicine cabinet. The edge of the sink digs uncomfortably in his lower back but it’s nothing against the sharp stinging in the back of his head and his hand. Luke’s pinned his arm against the broken mirror of the medicine cabinet while his other arm’s threatening to crush Greg’s windpipe. There’s a madness in Luke’s eyes that’s beginning to make Greg think that Luke can kill him easily.

 

The only option Greg really has is to spit in Luke’s face.

 

“Fuck.”

 

It takes him completely by surprise. Greg shoves him off then drops to his knees, gagging.  “You idiot,” he gasps, his voice hoarse and his throat burning just from the effort of talking. “What—what the hell are you doing?”

 

Luke just stares at him blankly. He looks like a mess with Greg’s spit running down his cheek and his mouth covered in blood. There’s still a trace of white powder on the tip of his nose. Greg grits his teeth and reaches for him. But Luke flinches and before Greg can do anything, he scrambles to the door, pushing past Chuck whose annoyed frown fades to a look of disbelief when he finds Greg.

 

“Oh, shit.”

 

* * *

 

“You ought to stop moving your hand, mate. That thing will scar.”

 

Chuck glances at him nervously. Greg wants to hit him but his hand is hurting like hell. Even with the painkillers he can feel the dull throbbing of his hand which was the first to hit the mirror. There’s a dull ache behind his right eye that’s probably caused by the egg-size lump on the back of his head but Greg doesn’t want to give in to it even though Chuck’s face shows Greg that he wants him to fall asleep until they reach the flat.

 

“You knew about it,” he says. “About Luke. Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

Chuck shrugs, trying to pass if off as uncaring. But Greg can see the fear and anxiety in the crease between his eyebrows. “I thought you already knew. I didn’t think it would be such a problem—”

 

“Such a problem?” he snaps. His vocal chords protest but Greg can’t bring himself to stop. “Chuck, Luke’s doing drugs! Why doesn’t that bother you?”

 

Dimly, he hears the cabbie turn the radio up. Chuck glances at him before turning to Greg once more. “Mate, everyone does it. I do it, Annika does it, and—Greg, it’s just cocaine. It’s just like smoking.”

 

“It isn’t,” Greg insists. There’s a heavy feeling settling in his chest that he thinks might be shock. “You know that it’s far from that.”

 

“Why not?” Chuck sounds annoyed now. “Smoking causes cancer. Besides, it’s not like we’re stupid enough to OD.”

 

Greg stares at him. He’s right, though, because there’s really no difference between smoking and doing drugs.

 

And then he remembers the manic look in Luke’s eyes.

 

How could he have missed any of that? How could he have _not_ known?

 

“Look, Greg, just leave us alone, alright? We’re fine.”

 

“Then why the hell did Luke just attack me—”

 

“He just took too much. It happens sometimes. Really, it usually calms him down—”

 

“You’re not making sense!”

 

“As if you’re any better!” Chuck glares at him. And then he sighs and turns his face away, avoiding the argument as always. “Ever since you started hanging out with Mycroft’s family, you’ve become this stuck-up berk. Just. Leave. It.”

 

Greg closes his eyes and tries to calm himself by counting from ten to one.

 

He doesn’t get past eight.

 

“Stop the cab.”

 

As soon as the cab’s stopped moving, Greg gets out, ignoring the headache that comes when he gets on his feet. “Oi!” Chuck yells after him. “Don’t be unreasonable, Greg. You’re hurt. Get back here.”

 

“I’m leaving you alone, alright.”

 

“ _Greg_. We’ll talk about it at home. The others are leaving already.”

 

He doesn’t turn back, just keeps walking, and only stops when he hears a car door slam shut in the distance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, drugs, again. Part 3 explains why there are always drugs in this series. And you're probably feeling sorry for Mycroft, but Mycroft will be just as bad in the coming chapters. Actually, everyone's just really horrible at dealing with problems in this fic.


	12. Rust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, finally finished this chapter. Writer's block and uni kept me from finishing this but it's finally done--but with a fucking cliffhanger as always.

“I really don’t know why you never visit,” Alanis complains, ending the sentence with a resounding crunch that tells Greg she’s eating some unfortunate vegetable. Greg wrinkles his nose in distaste but doesn’t remark on it. Whoever stated that vegetarians are weaklings can go chop off his balls and stuff them down his throat, because Alanis is in no way a weak person. “It’s not like you don’t have the money.”

 

Greg presses the tip of his tongue against his teeth to cut off the sigh threatening to leave his chest. Alanis will kill you, he reminds himself. Even a thousand miles away, she’s capable of doing that. “I visited,” he argues as he shifts the cordless phone to his other ear. The movement stretches the stitches on the back of his hand. Instinctively, he bites back a wince. Alanis doesn’t know about that. No one does, really, except Mycroft who’d narrowed his eyes at him but was unable to make any sort of remark because Sherlock had come in the room, demanding to be entertained. His parents believe it’s from a motorbike accident. Luke’s parents believe Luke’s staying at Chuck’s for a while though Greg’s learned from Lucca that no one’s seen him since the party. Alanis definitely doesn’t need to know about any of it. She won’t understand.

 

Greg doesn’t really understand, either.

 

Alanis snorts. “Yeah, right. That was three years ago, Dingo, and it was only for a week. Haven’t even met your boyfriend yet. Oh wait, _fiancé_. What do you even use? Come on, mate. Bet he’s never stepped foot in Australia.”

 

“I prefer boyfriend, thanks,” Greg answers wryly. “And I’m pretty sure Mycroft’s been to Australia already.” He’s pretty sure Mycroft’s been to more than twenty countries already, during the weeks when Greg doesn’t see him or when they have family trips, about the same time Greg’s father insists they visit his side of the family. An image of Mycroft in Hawaii has him grinning like an idiot. He clears the thought away. “And stop calling me Dingo.”

 

“He hasn’t met us,” Alanis argues, ignoring the last bit.

 

 _That’s because you’ll probably give him a heart attack._ Greg doesn’t say this out loud, though, knowing all too well that Alanis will only take it as a challenge. He’s not sure how Mycroft will react if he ever does take him to see his family on his father’s side. They’re not Australian, not really. A number of them live in Australia, but the rest are spread out across the globe, travelling and occasionally settling down long enough to breed like rabbits. He has Vietnamese cousins from one uncle and Russian cousins from one aunt. It’s a bit strange.

 

Alanis ‘hmm’s’ in a vaguely displeased way. Greg can just see her in his mind’s eye, phone cradled in the space between her neck and shoulder, feet propped up so that her toes are against the cool glass of one of the many aquariums in her house. They don’t see each other often as Asutralia’s too far away and Greg’s not really the kind of Lestrade whose level of adventurous extends to travelling. But she writes letters—long, winding ones almost worth a plane ticket.

 

“If you do come bring Luke again, alright?” He can practically see her grinning from here, mouth shaped to form her customary shark’s grin. “He’s not going to cheat in Monopoly again. I’ll make sure of it.”

 

Greg laughs. It sounds a bit forced but Alanis doesn’t seem to notice. “Aunt Giselle there?”

 

“Nah, she went with dad to the reserve. Baby dolphins to study, yadda-yadda.” There’s a scratchy sound, followed by a muffled yell that he guesses might be a swear word. Greg stares at a fly making its way to one of his socks while he waits. “Sorry,” she says, sounding exasperated. “Frankie’s messing with the fish again. Talk to you soon, okay?”

 

“Okay, bye—” She hangs up, though, but not without Greg hearing her little brother get an earful about not putting his hand in the tanks.

 

He tosses the phone to the pile of clothes at the foot of his bed and tries not to think about Luke or Mycroft. But it’s not easy, edging near impossible to be more specific. Luke’s out there doing god-knows-what and Greg can’t even tell anyone because it feels wrong. It’s not his story to tell, anyway, because he doesn’t even know half of it. And he and Mycroft still haven’t gotten over whatever it is that’s plaguing them. It might be fear or distrust or a little bit of both, but it’s clear that neither of them are willing to talk about it.

 

_Pull yourself together, Greg. Wake the hell up already._

There’s a sharp rap on the door, followed by his father’s head poking from behind it. “Lunch,” he calls cheerfully. “Get your arse out of bed. You’ve been there all day.”

 

“I was talking to Alanis.” It’s not a justifiable excuse when used on his mother but his father’s face visibly softens. He likes Alanis since she’s a mini version of his sister, minus the consumption of vegetables, and the dreadlocks springing from her scalp. Greg uses this fondness to his advantage as much as he can. It has yet to fail.

 

“She badgering you to come visit again?” he asks. Greg confirms it with what he hopes might be a dismissive grunt. But instead of leaving, his father takes it as an invitation to come in the room and sit on the edge of his mattress. Greg groans and rolls onto his belly so that his face is pressed into the pillow. “Go away,” he mumbles, but his father rests his hand on the middle of his spine, a clear indicator that he’s not going anywhere.

 

“Your hand doing well?”

 

“’m fine.”

 

“Still angry about me taking your bike away, aren’t you?”

 

The truth is, he hasn’t even thought about it once, not after begging Quentin to drive it into a tree to make his story more believable. Between worrying about Luke and Mycroft, there really isn’t any time to think about his bike. Okay, he did think about it a few times, but that thing’s been with him for two years already and, well, can you blame him for getting a little sentimental from time to time? Still, he lets out an annoyed huff, hoping his father might think that it’s sincere. Luckily, he falls for it.

 

­“Lunch,” he repeats firmly. The hand is removed and when Greg looks up, his father’s already gone, the door left wide open. Greg toys with the idea staying there all day, but another call of his name has him rolling out of bed.

 

“I really wish you’d stop wearing that shirt, Greg,” his mother chides as soon as he takes a seat. “It looks like it’s about to fall out of you.”

 

He rolls his eyes at her. “It’s _vintage_ , Mum.”

 

The kitchen smells of cumin and basil, a combination of scents that directs Greg’s olfactory sense to the word ‘home’. They don’t look it, he knows, especially with his whole leather jacket-vintage band shirt getup, but they’re the kind of family that insists on eating every meal together. The kind with the embarrassing parents who still pinch his cheeks and show whoever unfortunate being manages to get stuck in the living room long enough for them to pull out all of Greg’s baby pictures and recite anecdotes that, for some reason, are never _not_ humiliating.

 

“Your hair needs to be cut again. You look like a pineapple,” his mum says. She takes a strand of it between her fingers and eyes it critically. “Washed as well,” she adds, unfazed by Greg’s indignant cry of ‘Mum!’

 

“Don’t nag him Denise. He’s seventeen-years-old—he can do whatever he wants. _Within reason_.” This last is directed at his injured hand. Greg scowls and hides it under the table.

 

“Why can’t you be in a business trip right now?” Greg mutters.

 

His father shrugs then turns to his mother with a conspiratorial grin. Greg hangs his head and tries to concentrate in finishing his meal.

 

“Do you remember when I was in Finland—”

 

“Oh my god, the _toilet_ —”

 

“The Paddington Bear toy—”

 

“Cried the whole time! Ha, he looked like a little Noah—”

 

“In my defence,” Greg says loudly before his parents can further compare him to Bible characters, “I was five and Uncle Jack said I’d go to prison if I ever did something bad with the toilet and I had no idea that it can overflow so can we please stop talking about this now?”

 

“You were so adorable at five,” his mother sighs wistfully which Greg feels ought to be offensive. “I wish I’d taken a picture of that moment.” She turns to his father again, much to his dismay. Greg thinks he’s only alive because there isn’t a guest present. He remembers the last time he and his mates gathered in his house. No one really wants to know about the time Greg ate a caterpillar, thank you very much.

 

“…used to sing it all the time in the bath, didn’t he, Noel?” his mum recalls, laughing. And then they’re off, singing a toneless rendition of ‘Jailhouse Rock’. Greg winces and wishes that he didn’t remember, but he does and the song brings back memories of his childhood obsession with Elvis Presley.

 

He hides his grin with another scowl. “You guys are ridiculous.”

 

“Compared to my sisters I’m the normal one,” his father snorts. “Speaking of which, Pauline’s inviting us to Marseilles for a week or two. You can bring Luke.”

 

Greg tenses and this time, he isn’t so lucky. His mother’s always been the more perceptive one. “Have you and Luke been fighting?” she asks, concerned. “I haven’t seen you two together since you left for Charles’ party.”

 

“Daniel says Luke’s staying in London for a while.” His father looks at him for confirmation.

 

“He’s seeing someone,” Greg lies, not trusting himself to meet their eyes. He’s snorting cocaine doesn’t seem suitable in such a domestic setting. Greg winces inwardly. “You know, by ‘seeing’ I really mean sleeping with god-knows-who. I give it two weeks.”

 

“Using himself as a heat-aide again.” She clicks her tongue. “Well, as long as he’s careful. Then again, maybe Isobel should have taken Theodore’s offer on a pre-bond for Luke. You remember him, Noel? He’s got a lovely girl Greg’s age.”

 

Greg doesn’t voice his opinion. He tries but fails to imagine Luke in any sort of long term relationship. He would hate it, he thinks, would hate being strapped to someone.

 

_Is that how I think of Mycroft?_

He shakes his head, scolds himself. _No. That’s not it._

 

The conversation shifts to his father’s work and Greg uses it as an excuse to leave the table and head to the living room.

 

The whole house dates back to the 1920’s and remains dimly lit no matter how many windows they add. It’s much smaller than the Holmes’ manor but somehow more welcoming in spite of the darkness. The living room’s always made Greg think of a fancy bar in a mafia movie. If his parents ever complain about his nights out with friends, he thinks he can always blame the way this part of the house is designed. What doesn’t look so accommodating is the cow skull hanging over the wall behind the bar. It’s another one of those odd gifts his father’s brothers or sisters send from their current location. When they were younger, Luke would take it down and set it on Greg’s head, the two of them tearing off to scare the locals. He’d tried to scare Mycroft which had failed miserably. He’d tried—and succeeded—in frightening Sherlock to tears.

 

“I was four; don’t be so smug about it.”

 

Greg whips his head to find Sherlock standing behind him, hands on his hips and a displeased expression on his face. He’s dressed in a shirt that’s at least two sizes too big and dirt-stained cargo pants with torn knees. For some reason, he’s also barefoot. “How the hell did you get in here?” Greg hisses. His eyes widen when they move past Sherlock and onto the footprints all over the carpet. “Sherlock!”

 

“The door,” Sherlock replies in his best you’re-an-idiot voice. “I saw your mother buying honey yesterday and since your father’s a diabetic and you don’t really care much for sweets, it means your mother’s baked a cake and that she still has some to spare. I’m looking for dessert.”

 

Greg glares at him. “Don’t you have any at home?”

 

“I was outside investigating a beehive. And our kitchen’s full of nosy people who’ll report to my mother that I’m not in my cleanest state.” An annoyed look at his clothes tells Greg he’s not oblivious to how he must look. Right, he remembers. Sherlock is, at eleven, vainer than any eleven-year-old ought to be. “Mother thinks it’s unhealthy for me to eat too many snacks,” he adds as he scratches at a dirt stain on the shirt.

 

“It is unhealthy.”

 

“They’re the only foods that stimulate my mind,” Sherlock argues. “I haven’t eaten in two days. School food is disgusting regardless of the school’s status.”

 

Greg thinks about disagreeing then decides against it and just takes Sherlock to the kitchen. Half an hour later, he’s sitting on Greg’s bed, newly-bathed and with a plate of honey cake balanced on his lap. Greg waits for him to say something but Sherlock is silent, his attention on the food in front of him. Finally, Greg puts on a record and lies back on the floor, his face turned toward the bed so that he can see Sherlock’s feet sway to-and-fro. The third track is finished by the time the plate’s cleaned.

 

“My brother’s become more of a nuisance ever since you started this nonsense,” Sherlock announces as he sets the plate on Greg’s bedside table. “I’m only here for the weekend but I can’t enjoy the comfort of my own home thanks to my brother’s presence. Talk to him.”

 

Greg sits up and stares at him in disbelief. “You’re seriously giving me relationship advice?”

 

A wrinkle appears in Sherlock’s forehead. “I don’t know anything about… _romantic_ relationships,” he mutters. “Frankly, the whole notion of it disgusts me. But if I can force you to talk to him then it may get Mycroft off my back, long enough for me to conduct my experiment. It’s to do with bees,” he adds for Greg’s sake, “and neither Mycroft nor my mother approve.”

 

He taps the tines of the fork against his lower lip in a contemplative manner. It’s a childish gesture, and when Greg looks at him, he sees just that—a scrawny kid in an old The Clash shirt and a pair of jeans he grew out of. They’re still too long for Sherlock, the legs having been turned a number of times so that his feet stick out like clappers. He sets the fork down then looks at Greg beneath the wild mess of his hair. “Is that what all relationships are like? Fighting all the time?”

 

Greg’s startled by the genuine curiosity in Sherlock’s face. _Surely, he doesn’t think that._ But then Greg remembers Sherlock’s parents and his family, remembers what Priam said about them being so dysfunctional it’s a miracle they even reproduce. And then _this_ , this thing he can’t even explain which is beginning to affect Sherlock in a way that has Greg fearing can’t be undone. Now that he thinks about it, it isn’t exactly shocking that Sherlock sees things that way.

 

“No,” he says carefully, aware of the weight of each word he delivers. “Not all relationships are like that, Sherlock. People fight, you know? You can’t really avoid that. But that’s…that’s not what having a relationship is all about. There are good times, good experiences.”

 

He sighs when Sherlock doesn’t react. “Look, I know you’re worried about your brother.” Sherlock flinches like Greg flung a severed body part at him. Or not that since Sherlock would probably rejoice upon having something new to experiment on—not a thought that should be dwelled on. “But uh, I guess we’re learning to stay apart? Did I phrase that right? Anyway, it’s just…sometimes it’s not good to stay too long with one person.”

 

“You’re starting to hate it,” Sherlock says and this time, it’s Greg who flinches from the close scrutiny. “The pre-bond, the way people keep associating you with Mycroft. You’re _scared_.”

 

Greg grits his teeth. “Why would I be scared of Mycroft?”

 

“It isn’t Mycroft.” Sherlock tilts his head to the side then grins, his eyes shining brightly. “I get it! You’re afraid of losing the life you have. You don’t want to grow up yet. You only have what? Four years before you get bonded to Mycroft.”

 

“It isn’t that.” It _is_ that now that he thinks about it. It’s not that he doesn’t love Mycroft anymore. It’s just that loving Mycroft might not be enough. His eyes widen with the realization, and Sherlock beams smugly, simultaneously observant and oblivious. 

 

* * *

 

 

“You don’t have a choice. That’s the bad thing about being the eldest.” The stethoscope is cold against his chest, making him flinch in spite of himself. This close, Mycroft can smell tea and cigarettes on Priam’s breath, inexorably making him crave for the latter. His attention wavers for less than a second but Priam sees. He shakes his head.

 

“I’d offer you some but I’m afraid my staff won’t think kindly of me if you come out smelling of smoke.” He slides the stethoscope lower, pauses, then adds, “And I advise you not to smoke for a while. Your heart rate’s high. Stress?”

 

“Of course not. I am, as you see, perfectly relaxed,” Mycroft says in a sardonic manner that surprises himself. Priam cracks a smile. “Stress, then,” he confirms as he sets the stethoscope on his desk. “You ought to come to me more often. Sherlock, as well, though you’ll have to find him another doctor as soon as his secondary gender reaches puberty. I’d handle him myself but Omegas tend to get uncomfortable when around Alpha doctors.”

 

He rattles on about medical procedures while Mycroft buttons up his shirt. He reads his uncle silently, taking note of his bloodshot eyes and unkempt hair, of the coffee stain on the left cuff of his shirt with a bit of guilt. As guileless he may be, sometimes to the point of cruelty, he has a caretaker’s attitude, seen from the way he dedicates himself to his work. Mycroft is aware that he judges him too harshly.

 

“I don’t mind,” Priam tells him. He looks over his shoulder, eyes scanning down Mycroft’s body to take note of his stance and connect it to his thoughts. “But I did nothing wrong. I said nothing but the truth.” It’s meant to be casual but the delivery is tarnished by the way his eyes are trained on a pile of books at his desk, purposely refusing to meet Mycroft’s.

 

“I like the boy,” Priam mutters and this time he’s defensive, arms crossed over his chest and looking far too much like Sherlock. “He’s a good influence on you. And he’s fun—he’s different. Siger made a good choice in picking him for you. But I can’t say that you’re a good influence on him.”

 

Mycroft frowns at that, but it may be the truth. And it _hurts_ , of course it does. “I’m sorry,” Priam tells him. “I just don’t want you to hurt that kid, Mycroft. And I don’t want you to hurt yourself for hurting him.”

 

 _You’re not your father_. The words hover behind Priam’s lips but the moment passes and he doesn’t say it out loud. “You keep secrets,” is what he says instead. With a small shake of his head, he asks, “Why didn’t you tell him about his cousin?”

 

Mycroft shrugs. “I don’t know.” It’s a lie. _I didn’t want Greg to hurt_. But it’s clear he made a mistake by not telling him earlier and Greg’s hurting now, both physically and emotionally. And the thing is, Mycroft’s not sure what he ought to do. His Alpha instincts keep pointing to him that he should comfort Greg, take him in his arms, and keep him safe. But Greg values his independence and he’d hate it. He’s starting to hate it now and Mycroft _sees_ it, sees the uncertainty in Greg’s eyes whenever he looks at him but there’s nothing he can do about it. Greg won’t stop being uncertain, he knows, even with a full bond. Unless of course, he lets him go.

 

His family would disapprove. They always stick with the people chosen for them but that’s because they don’t fall in love. It’s always a duty to the family, the bond more an arrangement for procreation.

 

Would he even let him leave?

 

“Mycroft,” Priam says and Mycroft tears his attention away from his thoughts and focuses on Priam. His uncle is looking at him thoughtfully. “If you were never in a pre-bond with Greg—if, for example, his father had no association with Siger—would you have even spared him a second glance?”

 

Mycroft is quiet for a moment. “That’s a question with no right answers and you know it,” he says and this time it’s Priam who shrugs and tells him that it does have an answer. Mycroft just doesn’t know it yet.

 

“Boy isn’t a duty, Mycroft,” Priam reminds him. “Don’t treat people like they can be rescheduled, like you own them.”

 

“I don’t—”

 

“You do.”

 

He huffs, defeated. “You were the one who told me that the work is important. You _approved_ of it.”

 

“Ingfred said that, not me,” Priam snorts even though he did say it. Mycroft remembers it, remembers everything he says, whether he likes it or not. “You’ll be—or rather, are—successful. I know what you’re doing Mycroft. Your mother told me and I pieced it together. Future politician? That’s bull. You’re making those officials adore you. You’re weaving a network and that’s impressive, Mycroft, how can anyone not be impressed? But if you can’t answer that question, then nephew dear, I feel sorry for Greg.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Don’t!”

 

Greg runs to him, hands resting firmly on his shoulders even though it makes pain bloom on his injured hand. His face twists in a grimace but he keeps his hold on Mycroft. “Don’t hurt him,” he pleads. Mycroft isn’t even attempting to fight him but the fury must be in his eyes because Greg’s grip tightens. Luke is shaking on the sofa, curled in on himself with his face pressed against his knees.

 

The rest of the house is still. What a picture they would make to Greg’s parents, Mycroft thinks. He feels the Alpha in him rage, fills him with the urge to grab Luke by the throat and throttle him. But Greg’s holding him to the point of pain and he knows that he’ll never forgive him if he hurts Luke. Slowly, he tears his eyes away from the miserable ball on the couch to stare in Greg’s face. He’s unhurt (physically) and he smells faintly of Luke’s blood, the source of it on the knuckles of his uninjured hand. Always resorting to violence, those two. He stamps down the fury and tells himself that no, he’s not like Greg—if he hurts Luke he won’t be able to stop himself.

 

Mycroft steps back. Relief washes over Greg’s face and he exhales loudly. “Let’s talk somewhere else,” he suggests. He warns Luke not to run off then grabs Mycroft by the wrist to take him to the dining room.

 

“You knew,” Greg accuses once it’s clear Luke won’t be able to overhear them. “Why did you never tell me?”

 

“The same reason why you’re not telling his parents or yours,” Mycroft answers carefully, watching as Greg’s face moves from furious to confused and finally to resigned.

 

“I need to help him.”

 

“Help him?” Mycroft sneers. “He _hurt_ you. Why would you waste your time fixing something that’s broken beyond repair? He’s an addict and it isn’t just the cocaine. Luke has the tendency to be easily influences by his friends, and unfortunately it does not extend to positive effects.”

 

“He’s my best friend,” Greg snaps. “I can’t just leave him.”

 

_He hurt you, he lied to you, you can’t trust him, don’t take that risk._

“There’s a rehabilitation facility nearby,” Mycroft suggests. It’s futile, though. Greg frowns and goes from furious to defensive.

 

“No…not like that. I need to know why.”

 

Mycroft grabs his hand. _Stop it, listen to me for once!_ “Understand that I only want to protect you. Do not get involved in this. Let me take care of it instead.”

 

“How? By treating him like something that you need to get rid of?”

 

“There is an easy solution. If you just look at it in a different light.”

 

“You don’t _know_ Luke, Mycroft.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous; I had the misfortune of spending my childhood with him.” To force Luke into rehab isn’t going to truly cure him of his addiction. It will be an everyday battle. Mycroft’s seen it from his cousins, the knowledge of their vices an open secret that no one dares talk about. Still, it’s the easiest way to keep him away from Greg. To keep Greg safe.

 

Greg shakes his head. There’s no convincing him to turn away from Luke.

 

“Then do whatever you please,” Mycroft mutters bitterly, hating himself and Greg for the words that come of out his mouth. “I won’t speak of this to anyone but neither will I help you.”

 

He doesn’t expect the hug that follows. It’s a little awkward and just shy from being painful when Greg’s head accidentally knocks against his chin before he settles. But it’s good, too, and it doesn’t feel fake, doesn’t feel like they have to do it.

 

“I’m sorry,” Greg says when he pulls away. “I just need you to trust me on this.”

 

He doesn’t. That’s the problem. But Greg’s begging him, pleading, and Mycroft can’t do it.

 

He can’t deny him this.

 

* * *

 

 

They don’t have ice. It’s unsanitary and more than a little disgusting but a cold steak to a bruise is better than nothing at all. Luke doesn’t even cringe when Greg hands it to him. He mutters his thanks, his mouth slow in forming the words. That will hurt more in the morning and Greg feels a small satisfaction, followed by a bit of guilt.

 

“Mycroft’s not very pleased to see me, is he?” Luke asks.

 

“I’m not very pleased with you either.” _But I’m glad you’re not dead in a ditch._ He doesn’t have to say the words out loud. Luke looks like shit. His skin’s turned sallow and he seems to have lost half his weight. He looks like he’s drowning in the leather jacket wrapped around him. Looks like a proper junkie, Greg realizes with a sinking heart.

 

“About your hand,” Luke says. “I’m sorry. Again. I’ll never stop being sorry about that, I think.”

 

“Why?”

 

Luke shrugs, mutters something that Greg doesn’t quite catch. Whatever it is, it isn’t the truth. “Don’t give me that shit, Luke,” Greg snaps. “ _Why_?”

 

“You know the first time we smoked?” Luke says. “When Brandon taught us and…and it just felt right? There was a party and…and someone offered and you know me. Never says no. And…honestly Greg it didn’t feel good the first time but it kind of helped. Controlling the ADD. It helped me think straight and the first time became a second then a third and…” He stops, voice shaking. Greg looks away, his hands curling into fists when he hears Luke sniff. God, he’s seen Luke cry loads of times but he’s never seen him broken and Greg doesn’t want to start now. “I can’t stop, Greg.”

 

“You need help. We need to talk to your parents, explain things to them. But you have to decide. I can’t make your decisions for you. You’ll go against them anyway.”

 

“I know, it’s just…This isn’t something I can easily get out of.”

 

Greg opens his mouth to argue but closes it again when he sees that Luke isn’t meeting his eyes. There’s something else, something worse. “Luke,” he starts, fearing the conclusion. “Do you deal?”

 

Luke seems to deny it for a moment but finally, he says yes.

 

“Fuck. Fucking hell, Luke, you idiot!” He stands up, looms over him and is startled by how Luke shrinks away. “You owe someone don’t you? How much?”

 

“2 380 pounds,” Luke answers quietly, still not meeting Greg’s eyes. “I made a mistake. A big one.”

 

Greg closes his eyes. “That’s why you’re here isn’t it? You’re running away from them. Fine. I don’t have that kind of money but I’ll help you. Somehow.”

 

“What? No!” Luke glares at him. “I came here to check on you, not drag you into this. Fuck, Greg, if anything happens to you—”

 

“You’re not going to answer to Mycroft because he already made it clear that he’s not going to get involved in this.”

 

“And if you get hurt you think Mycroft will forgive me just because of a few words? And what about me, huh? I’ll carry that burden for the rest of my life! I’m not going to allow it.”

 

“Yeah, well fat chance of that happening?” Greg sighs. “Does Chuck know?”

 

“Chuck doesn’t deal.”

 

“Then what the fuck happened to you?”

 

Luke growls but the anger isn’t directed at Greg. “I made some stupid mistakes and now I can’t get out.”

 

“Then let me _help_.”

 

“I can’t—Greg, I’m sorry but that’s not happening. You don’t know them. They’ll hurt you…they won’t stop.”

 

“Luke, you’re an idiot if you think I’m going to let you get killed. _Please_.”

 

Luke stares at him, wide-eyed and face pale.

 

“Luke.”

 

“Okay,” Luke mutters and Greg feels the ghost of a smile form on his mouth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is hurting and I don't care--I love it.
> 
> So next chapter's pretty intense and well, I can't promise no one will get hurt. 
> 
> So Greg's pretty stubborn and he probably comes off as a goody-two-shoes-save-the-day kind of guy here. But take note that this is Luke. He cares for him the same way as Mycroft does Sherlock and he will do anything to help him.


	13. The Walls Come Crashing Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Greg learns far too much about Luke's dilemma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possibly the darkest chapter in Venn which is why it took so long to write. Warnings for mentions of drugs and sexual abuse.

“You should tell your parents.”

 

Luke gives him an off-put look that Greg easily translates into ‘well, duh, didn’t you think that crossed my mind?’ Greg nearly contradicts him just for the sake of starting another argument and having a semblance of normalcy return to them. But Luke is right. Of course he thought about them. That’s what kids do when they mess things up; they think about their parents and hope that they can get them out of whatever mess they’ve gotten themselves into.

 

“Not now,” Luke mumbles. “Later, maybe.” His grip tightens on the empty coffee mug cradled in his hands. He’s shaking like a leaf, his eyes constantly darting from side-to-side, and his whole body is perched on the edge of his seat, like he’s about to run at any moment. Withdrawal isn’t pretty, Luke explained to him, eyes mixed with guilt and fear and that hint of junkie greed that made Greg feel sick. But Luke has to be clean if Greg’s going to help him collect money. There’s less than a hundred pounds of cash between the two of them and Greg pickpocketed Luke earlier for any drugs on his person. Greg’s just not sure how well he’ll be able to hold on without running off again.

 

“Besides,” Luke says with a small laugh, interrupting his thoughts, “it’s a bit too late for that, isn’t it?”

 

Greg shrugs. “I wouldn’t know, mate. You won’t even tell me how you managed to owe someone that much money.”

 

It isn’t even delivered angrily and yet Luke’s eyes widen in shock. His lips tighten and he sinks in his chair, a look of utter defeat on his face. And, well, Greg _gets it_ because they don’t keep secrets from each other, or if they do, then they’re secrets that don’t really matter much. It’s like a law of physics that they should trust each other and that wherever Luke goes, Greg goes also. It’s been that way since they were kids, like when Luke punched Isa Mallory and landed himself in detention, Greg didn’t even think twice about running towards some random classmate and hitting him so he’d be with Luke.

 

_Yeah, but you’re not kids anymore. Things were easier back then._

 

“You should tell me, you know,” Greg tries for what might be the fourth time. But Luke closes in on himself as soon as the words leave his mouth, face drawn into a sombre expression. And fear, there’s always fear. Fear about what, Greg has absolutely no idea, but whatever it is that’s plaguing him, it must be big. Between life or death big.

 

“Here,” he says, sliding his plate towards Luke. “Eat some more.”

 

Greg doesn’t miss the hesitation in Luke’s face, but it disappears as quickly as it appeared. There’s just something very wrong with Luke and Greg isn’t sure if it’s the drugs or something else. He barely eats, his eyes become distant, and he always has a coat on even though it’s hot enough that Greg worries he might collapse from heat stroke. He wishes he can ask Chuck but Luke vehemently protested Chuck’s involvement. “Not him, Greg, he doesn’t run in the same crowd as I do, not him,” Luke pleaded.

 

He rests his head on the tabletop even though it’s sticky on the surface with crumbs the busboys are too lazy to clean, and sticky underneath where unhygienic kids hide their chewed-up gums away. The heat is making him lazy and more aware of the fact that he didn’t sleep at all last night, too busy trying _not_ to make it look like Luke was in his bedroom, and no, he had no idea where he was, sorry, because Luke’s too much of a chicken to show his face to his parents and to Greg’s.

 

The bell above the door chimes, announcing the arrival of new customers. Greg watches as the Latin boy who served them marches over to where a group of girls have taken their seat. They’re all around fourteen, laughing unselfconsciously, as if being outside without parental supervision is the best thing to happen in their world.

 

In his peripheral view, Luke tenses, and Greg automatically turns to him, questioning. “Let’s go, please, let’s go,” Luke mumbles under his breath. He nearly knocks his cup over when he leaps out of his chair. He’s folded his arms across himself, hands digging in the insides of his elbows, his spine bent forward.

 

 _What broke you?_ Greg thinks helplessly as he hurries to catch up with him.

 

* * *

 

Luke assures him that the job is easy. He claims that all he has to do is collect money from his dealer’s more difficult clients until the list is cleared. He tells him not to worry, which is counterproductive as it only makes Greg worry more. He isn’t stupid. There’s a reason why Luke’s the one being sent out to collect. If the people who managed to break him can’t do it, then it’s definitely a job Luke won’t be able to do alone.

 

They arrive in front of a row of rundown flats, in a street that looks shitty enough it’s almost beautiful in its urban decay. “Let me do all the talking,” Luke says as he grabs Greg by the wrist and pulls him behind him. “Moskowitz is easy.”

 

The inside of Moskowitz’s flat has that sickly-sweet and sour smell that’s usually associated to old sweat and rotting garbage. Greg sniffs then makes a face when he catches scent of an Omega’s post-heat beneath the smell of rot. It’s enough to affect Luke whose pupils have dilated slightly. Greg pinches him and Luke shakes his head, grumbles something about Moskowitz’s whores, before scratching hard on the inside of his forearm where a suppressing patch ought to sit. Greg reaches for his pocket, about to offer him one when Luke shakes his head and gives him a sheepish look.

 

“Won’t affect me,” he confesses, averting his eyes. “Not while I’m…You know there’s too much in the system.”

 

“Right.”

 

There’s nearly no furniture to be seen. The wallpaper is peeling in places, revealing a sickly yellow-white plaster beneath. A stack of dirty dishes and take away boxes sit by the door. Greg turns one over with his foot then jumps back when more than a couple of cockroaches scuttle out and crawl over Luke’s shoe. Luke stands, unfazed.

 

“You get used to it,” he says flatly.

 

They move to the kitchen. Here, towers of empty beer cans litter the sticky floor. In the middle sits a lump of dirty clothes that Luke quickly moves to. “Luke,” Greg starts then stops when Luke suddenly delivers a swift kick to the centre of the pile.

 

The lump jolts up with a shriek of pain, sending clothes flying until all that’s left is a slightly overweight naked man.

 

Moskowitz is a man in his late thirties and a hideous one to look at in Greg’s opinion. Coming from someone who doesn’t really care about aesthetics, this is saying something. He has facial lesions and bloodshot eyes and needle marks on his arms. Like Luke’s, Greg thinks, unable to stop himself for giving Luke a ‘see I told you this is bad shit’ glare that Luke merely rolls his eyes at.

 

“Okay, Moskowitz. I gave you three days. Where’s the money?” Luke’s voice has gone dangerously low, the type of voice he uses when someone’s threatening the two of them. It isn’t faked. There’s trying to look furious in order to intimidate and there’s being furious enough that being intimidating is inevitable. They’re two completely different things.

 

He isn’t scaring Moskowitz, though. The man looks as if he’s still under the haze of whatever drug he’s injected into his body. He smiles lazily at them, revealing a row of yellow teeth, one of which has blackened with decay. His eyes fall on Greg who immediately tenses, the disgust he feels for the man rolling off him in waves.

 

“He looks like you, Rocky,” he chuckles, his mouth curled in a sneer. “You fuck your brothers, too?”

 

“You leave him alone you sick fuck,” Luke snarls. He steps forward, his fists raised threateningly. Strange how the thought that enters Greg’s head is ‘don’t punch him, you idiot, kick him, you’re better at kicking shit’.

 

Well, if it all comes down to fighting, Greg won’t hesitate to throw a punch.

 

Moskowitz throws his head back and laughs, a wheezy sound that tells Greg he’ll succumb to lung cancer in less than a decade. “Bravery ain’t good for you, boy.” He stands up, stumbles slightly, making his penis swing. It’s almost comical but this isn’t the place to laugh. He grins at Greg. “Don’t like what you see, boy? Might not look like much but Omegas beg for it.”

 

“Looks diseased if you ask me,” Greg retorts.

 

Moskowitz snorts. “I was wrong,” he says. “Lucas here ain’t one to fuck you. He likes ‘em younger, ain’t that right, boy?”

 

Greg expects Luke to throw another snide remark. Instead, his face blanches and when he turns to Greg he tells him to go back to the living room. “Please,” he says, eyes on Moskowitz who keeps laughing. The man throws a beer can at Luke who catches it but doesn’t open it. Another one is tossed as Greg who lets it drop.

 

Greg doesn’t argue. It would be futile, and this, whatever it is, isn’t something Luke wants him to know. He feels alienated already, like he’s interrupting something private. He shoots Moskowitz a warning glare before wandering back to the living room. A cockroach crawls past him then disappears into a hole in the wall. _This is the life Luke wants to live?_

_No, Greg, don’t be stupid. Something Mostkowitz said…_

“Daddy?”

 

Greg turns around. One of the doors at the back of the room is now open and a four-year-old boy is standing in the threshold, looking at him curiously. He’s probably as old as his cousin Frank. Only unlike Frank, he’s practically bones and skin and when Greg slowly moves closer, he sees that all the kid’s wearing is a grubby shirt that may have been blue once beneath all the grime. “Hey,” he greets, putting on a smile that feels so forced it probably screams fake. If the kid notices, he doesn’t mention it.

 

“You a salesman?” the kid asks. He wipes the snot off his nose with the hem of his shirt then peers at Greg curiously.

 

“No.” Somewhere in the kitchen, a screaming match ensues. Their voices are unclear, though, so Greg can’t pick up any of the words. It sounds more like Luke than Moskowitz so Greg doesn’t worry. Moskowitz may be bigger and a stone heavier but he’s drunk and high enough that he won’t be able to aim his punch well. Besides, Luke can take care of himself. He’s gotten this far, after all.

 

Salesman, Greg realizes, means his dad’s dealer in this kid’s world. He seems used to company and doesn’t protest when Greg pushes past him. The bedroom is in a miserable state. There’s no wallpaper here and the only furniture is a lumpy mattress pushed to one corner of the room. The kid runs past him and takes a seat on it, large eyes watching Greg carefully from beneath his hair. Greg makes a face upon spotting the crusty stains on the mattress and the condom wrapper amongst the litter.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

The kid shrugs then proceeds to play with the hem of his shirt. There’s a pair of scissors perched near his hip and when Greg looks at his hair, he sees that it’s been cut unevenly, probably by the kid himself. Greg looks at the mattress then at the floor before deciding that between a cockroach-littered floor and the place where Moskowitz fucks, he’d much rather choose the former.

 

A good choice, too. Something about the relief in the kid’s face makes Greg think that the mattress isn’t just there for sex and sleeping. There’s a bruise on the side of the boy’s face, turned a dark purple overtime. A fist? The wall? Mycroft would know, Greg thinks, before scolding himself. It doesn’t matter what caused it. What matters is that it’s there in the first place.

 

Greg thinks about kids who don’t have childhoods, the ones who are immediately thrust into show business, the ones who have cameras following them everywhere, the ones who aren’t allowed to be anyone else because society shapes them into what they want to be, and the moment they step out of line, it’s like vultures to a corpse. And then there’s this kid who probably has a whore for a mother who won’t claim him, a good-for-nothing junkie for a father who abuses him, and who has already sunk so low before he can even be conscious of his predicament.

 

Who’s better off?

 

He feels the irrational guilt universal to people who see those worse off than them. Greg stamps it down. Feeling guilty isn’t going to help this kid or Luke. A crash from the kitchen reminds him that. Greg sits up, straining his ears to listen for Luke. There’s more yelling but it sounds more like Luke just threw something to make his point. The kid himself seems unconcerned by the noise. Used to it, probably.

 

And he thought _Sherlock_ had a bad childhood.

 

“Hey, you want to see a magic trick?”

 

It’s just a stupid magic trick. It’s something he and Luke always did when they were younger in order to distract kids from whatever prank they were doing. Greg hides the coin in his palm then makes a show of plucking it out of the kid’s ear. His hand brushes the kid’s hair and Greg gets a whiff of his scent beneath the smell of sweat and dirty laundry. Something sweet, like burned sugar. Omega, his mind supplies, and Greg feels his gut clench.

 

_Damn it. Fucking hell._

_Nothing you can do about it, though._

 

The kid laughs when he does it a second time. “Okay,” Greg says, withdrawing his hand when the kid tries to reach for the coin. “I’ll give it to you. But only if you give me your name.”

 

He grins at him, his teeth just as bad as his father’s. But it’s a nice smile, beautiful in its innocence and only slightly marred by the bruise on his cheek. “Kyle,” he says, then crows in triumph when Greg tosses him the coin.

 

It doesn’t last long, this moment of happiness. There’s a louder crash and somehow, Greg knows that things have just turned to hell. Greg leaps up, tells Kyle to stay put, and is about to go to the kitchen when Luke appears and practically shoves the kid off the mattress. The boy lands on his side then lets out a wail when Luke upturns the mattress, revealing a white plastic bag that he quickly gathers in one hand.

 

“Come on, Greg!” Luke snaps when Greg hesitates. He kneels over Kyle but the kid wrenches out of his grasp. The trust has been replaced by fear and guilt settles in his stomach, weighing him down. Greg tries to reach for him once more but Luke pulls on his arm. “ _Greg_!”

 

“I’m sorry,” Greg says shakily before he runs after Luke.

 

Outside, Luke is still fuming, his anger palpable enough that a few passers-by look at him with concern. A skinny girl with blue-dyed hair narrows her eyes at them with suspicion and Luke walks faster, one hand wrapped around Greg’s wrist to drag him along. “Bastard,” Luke mutters vehemently. He tucks the plastic bag inside the inner pocket of his jacket. “Blackmailing me, planning on selling the fucking coke. Goddamn, Moskowitz. Fuck him. Glad I knocked out that stupid fucker.”

 

Greg thinks about Kyle, about how furious Moskowitz will be once he becomes conscious again. He’ll kill him, Greg thinks. He won’t even think twice. “Luke,” he says, waiting until Luke’s attention falls on him, “Luke we have to call the police. Report them about child abuse. That kid—”

 

“Isn’t any of my business,” Luke says dismissively.

 

“You’re being selfish,” Greg hisses. He wrenches his arm out of Luke’s grasp. “Don’t you care—Jesus, Luke this isn’t like you. That kid’s going to die because of us. Because of you.”

 

“If you press charges against Moskowitz, he’ll press charges against me.” Luke smiles bitterly, sadly. “And trust me, Greg, it isn’t just drugs.

 

“You mind your own business when you deal,” Luke tells him, his voice barely above a whisper. “You see a lot of shit, Greg. Child abuse, polygamy, theft...And you have to turn a blind eye to it because they always have one up on you. It’s a no-win situation because everyone’s guilty of something.”

 

He sighs. “You can’t save everyone, Greg. People shouldn’t even try.”

 

* * *

 

The place they’re staying at belongs to one of Luke’s friends, one from his crowd. It’s a slightly cleaner version of Moskowitz’s flat, with less cockroaches and the addition of rats climbing up and down behind the walls. Greg can hear them fighting, their voices tinny but quite audible. “I’ll call someone to check in on Moskowitz and his kid,” Luke promises as he falls in the only bed in the flat. It must be hard as rock because he makes a face, and he did offer Greg the sofa. If there’s one thing Greg is sure about this new Luke, it’s that his awareness of his disgrace makes him more of a martyr when it comes to Greg.

 

The cracked light bulb swings to and fro, making the shadows on Luke’s face dance. It makes him look frightening, but Greg knows better. There’s a vulnerability to him now that wasn’t present in Moskowitz’s flat. He’s on his side, a threadbare blanket wrapped around his whole body so that only half his face is visible.

 

_“If you press charges against Moskowitz, he’ll press charges against me.”_

Luke’s not going to talk about it today.

 

The back door creaks loudly when he opens it. Luke’s snoring halts but he doesn’t wake, only turns on his side and resumes. Greg doesn’t bother closing the door behind him; he probably won’t be able to go back in if he does.

 

It’s a bad neighbourhood and below, the sounds of yelling and car horns reach up to him, enticing him to look down. He’s four stories up but he can see three people arguing, a few kids running around playing ball, a man yelling at a security guard of the one decent shop.

 

Notice how in every bad place, the kids are always the one who have no wars.

 

He sucks on the end of his cigarette, observing them. Sherlock would have a field day deducing them; Mycroft would immediately hate them while at the same time make it look like he pities them. Greg feels nothing.

 

Five days. That’s the deadline they set for Luke. Greg has no idea who ‘they’ are, nor does he know what the consequences are if Luke fails to meet the deadline. He has no details, has no idea what will happen tomorrow, who they’ll meet. All Greg truly knows is that he has to get Luke out of this before things go bad.

 

To be honest, though, that’s all he really needs.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Luke collects a hundred pounds in the next place with a black eye for good measure. “I’m getting used to being punched,” he tells Greg who winces at the sight of his injury. “You kinda get used to it.”

 

It’s six in the morning and Luke just snuck inside another junkie’s house while Greg stood outside and kept watch. What he has in his hands isn’t money nor is it drugs. Three Rolex watches, all in good condition. Luke straps two on both of his wrists while Greg puts the other one on. “If they don’t have the money or the drugs they bought, you steal from them,” Luke informs him. “It isn’t technically stealing. You just get back what they took from you.”

 

Greg smiles wanly. “You’re the Robin Hood of the junkie world.”

 

Greg almost takes it back but Luke smiles back, and for a second, it almost looks like everything’s back to normal. An illusion, though. Luke’s smile disappears as soon as his eyes land on the Rolex. “Time’s running,” he says.

 

* * *

 

Greg loses his left shoe in the fourth. Going to a drunk man’s house and then getting chased out through the bathroom window does that to you. Wordlessly, Luke takes off his shoes and hands them to Greg. “No point in arguing, huh?” Greg asks as he slips them on. They’re a size too big and a tad heavy but it’s better than walking around barefoot.

 

They come across a homeless man who trades his boots for one of Luke’s more expensive earrings. It’s one of the skulls, a rather generous gift from Lucca, and Greg can’t help but grimace. Luke loves that blasted thing. But Luke’s face reveals nothing. “I can always get a new one,” he says once the boots are handed to him.

 

“Gross,” Luke mutters when he puts them on. The boots are mud-stained and the leather has cracked in places but Luke swallows his complaints once they’ve made it three blocks without the soles falling off.

 

It’s almost night. They walk faster.

 

* * *

 

“Please.”

 

Greg’s lost count on how many times Luke’s said that today. “She isn’t dangerous,” he assures Greg, even though his face tells him that Luke’s lying. Or if not lying, then she—whoever she is—is dangerous to Luke only.

 

“I’ll wait for you down here,” Luke tells him. He shakes the pack of cigarettes in his hands. “These guys will give me company.”

 

The door swings open on his third knock. The person behind it is a woman who blinks at him and says, “Luke?”

 

“Um, sorry, no,” Greg says. He sees the hope in her face deflate until there’s nothing but the kind of polite, vaguely awkward smile reserved for meeting strangers. “For a second…” she says. “I’m sorry, you look an awful lot like—”

 

“Cousin,” Greg says. It’s the usual explanation and it falls from his lips without even thinking much of it. “Distant cousins actually, but someone thought it would be funny if we looked more like twins.”

 

The woman smiles at this, albeit weakly. Greg studies her. She stands five foot flat and has the sharp aquiline nose belonging to Greeks. Her blond hair is loosely pinned and a few locks tumble down her forehead. Physically, she’s harmless, or at least, appears to be. And she’s close to Luke, obvious from how she already seems to trust him. She brushes the stray strands of her hair away in an impatient manner then bids him come in.

 

Inside, it’s surprisingly normal. A bit worn-down, yes. The ceiling is discoloured from rainwater and the floorboards are worn smooth, but it’s a lot more well-kept compared to the previous flats they broke into.

 

“I’m Greg.”

 

“Greta,” the woman informs him. She’s studying him as well, the confusion on her face evident. Greg’s used to seeing it. The pre-bond scent that speaks of aristocrats and his punk attire generate a lot of confusion. A ‘walking paradox’ Mycroft likes to say with that disapproving frown that’s actually a smile in disguise. Greg frowns at the memory.

 

Crap, he misses Mycroft already.

 

“You live alone?” he asks, shaking the thought away.

 

“With my sister,” Greta replies. The chairs in the dining room are mismatched. Greta steers him away from the orange one, telling him that it has a broken leg. She’s cooking pasta, he thinks, when she swears and resumes to stirring the pot.

 

“Shit,” she hisses. “That’s going to stick.”

 

“Yeah, that happens.” He grins as a memory comes to him. “When Luke and I were younger we, er, tried to cook pasta for my boyfriend’s little brother since he wouldn’t eat anything. We were seven.” He shudders at the image. “It was a disaster but we ate it. Everything tastes good if you’re seven and you make it edible enough, I guess.”

 

This makes her laugh. She turns the stove off, mutters something about getting food from that Italian place downstairs, then takes a seat opposite him. Her face turns sombre as soon as she’s settled. “Do you know where Luke is?” she asks. The questions is laced with genuine concern. Concern, not fear or anger, and Greg almost tells her before remembering that Luke warned him not to.

 

“I’m sorry, I have absolutely no idea,” he lies. _He’s downstairs, smoking up a storm._ Don’t tell them, he thinks. Luke specifically told him not to. “Luke…he asked for my help a week ago. To collect, I mean. I’m sure—”

 

“I know,” Greta interrupts. “The payment, I know.”

 

 _You don’t look like a junkie._ No, Greg corrects himself. _Long sleeves, skin too dry, keeps licking her lips._ You just have to look at the details.

 

“I had to work all day to get this,” she confesses when she gets back. The bills are folded neatly, kept together with a blue rubber band. Greg takes it and tucks it in the pocket of his jacket. Her smile is grave but there’s also pride in her face, the kind of pride that works its way towards you when you’ve righted your wrongs. “But it was worth it.”

 

“Can you tell me what—” Greg’s words are cut off by a scream, a cry for help coming from the door to the right. He stands up but Greta tells him that it’s alright, she’ll take care of it. “Alice,” she explains. Her brows furrow and she puts on a brave face, one that’s meant for her, not for Greg. “My sister gets nightmares after…well, after.”

 

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

 

Greta shakes her head. “No, actually, I’m sorry but I think you ought to leave now. It’s just that…she’s unhappy with strangers.”

 

Greg nods, undisturbed by it. Before closing the door, Greta stops him. She wraps her arms around herself. “If you see Luke,” she says, her voice shaking slightly. “Can you please tell him that we don’t blame him? We won’t press charges.”

 

The door closes before Greg can even ask anything. Inside, he hears Alice’s screams continue.

 

* * *

 

Luke’s waiting for him. He raises his hands in self-defence but Greg slams him against the wall, keeping one arm pressed against his neck. “What was she talking about?” he snarls. “What did you do?”

 

“N-nothing, alright?” Luke chokes. He scrambles to remove Greg’s arm, fingers digging in his sleeve. Greg releases him and Luke collapses to the dirty floor of the alleyway, gasping for breath. Greg readies himself for an attack but Luke just sits there, his forehead pressed against his knees. He begins to shake and when Greg puts on hand on his shoulder, he releases a choked sob.

 

“They made me do it,” he gulps, his words slightly muffled. The shaking increases. “They drugged me—and she was in heat…and…and I just couldn’t stop. There were four of us but I—They trust me so much, Greg. I helped Greta and Alice out a lot and they…they fucking used it against me.”

 

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Greg kneels in front of him. “That’s why you’re dealing. They’re blackmailing you.” He swallows hard, beats down the fear and guilt and anger that courses through him. Luke is innocent in a way and Greg misjudged him. They all did. And they all will if this doesn’t stop. “Luke,” he attempts, “they’re not going to press charges. They told me so. It’s not your fault—”

 

“She’s only fourteen, Greg!” Luke snaps. There’s a wild desperation in his eyes as he stares at him, his whole body shaking so hard Greg fears for him. He stands and Greg does so as well, tries to reach for him but Luke pulls away. “It was her first heat and we just—it’s rape, Greg. However you look at it, it’s _still_ rape.”

 

“You were drugged out of your mind,” Greg tries to reason. “You said so. You had no idea it was going to happen.”

 

“I still did it Greg.” His voice has gone fainter, his fury with himself crumbling until there’s nothing left but sadness. “Reason doesn’t erase that.”

 

* * *

 

They don’t talk about back in the flat. Luke ‘s in the bed again, facing the wall. Greg doesn’t even think about pressing him to continue their conversation because nothing good will amount to it. He hates this, hates how pathetic Luke’s become, hates how he hates Luke acting this way because it can’t be helped, because technically, Luke was raped as well.

 

He smokes cigarette after cigarette, until his throat turns raw and his eyes become bleary from lack of sleep. Luke isn’t snoring, meaning he’s awake and only pretending to.

 

 _Fuck this_.

 

The only working phone is downstairs, in the hallway. There’s a fifteen-year-old boy using it, angrily shouting at whoever it is on the other end of the line. He slams the phone down then gives Greg a defiant glare. It does nothing, only makes Greg think that the boy’s a bit absurd. The shaved head, the nose ring, the ‘insert random metal band name’ shirt he has on…it all looks ridiculous.

 

God, he’s outgrowing this, isn’t he?

 

Mycroft picks up at the first ring.

 

“Nothing’s wrong,” he assures him. It’s a complete lie and Mycroft must hear it in his voice. But no, he won’t talk about what happened to Luke. He _can’t_. “We’re doing great. I’ll be home tomorrow or after that maybe.”

 

Greg can hear the scratchy sound of Sherlock’s violin at the other end of the line. It’s nearly one in the morning so it must Sunday already. Greg looks at his watch. The Rolex was sold some time ago; Greg can’t remember what exact hour it was. “How come you’re not asleep?” he asks.

 

“Aside from the fact that Sherlock is keeping everyone up? I’ve been talking with my uncle to transfer some of the assets I’ve inherited. I don’t need them and Sherlock definitely has no use for them in the future.”

 

“Oh. Okay.”

 

“Is there any particular reason you’re calling me this late?”

 

It’s not spiteful. Greg leans against the wall and presses the phone against his ear even more. “Nothing, really,” he admits. “I just…wanted to hear your voice, I guess.”

 

Mentally, he chides himself. Mycroft’s busy and he did tell him that he didn’t want him to interfere. “Sorry, that was just stupid. Lack of sleep,” he says quickly. “I’ll let you get back to—”

 

“No, it’s fine. What do you want to talk about?”

 

Greg smiles gratefully, even though he knows Mycroft can’t see it. The hallway is cold, much colder than the flat, but the thought of going back to that room with Luke dead to the world chills him.

 

“Anything.”

 

* * *

 

There are four of them and Greg instantly thinks ‘run’ from the way Luke cringes. “No fair,” Luke stammers, his eyes pleading. “You said five days. You said!”

 

It’s the middle of the night and they’re in a deserted street in a neighbourhood bad enough that confrontations like these are considered normal. The money is in the flat they’re staying at which is about five blocks away. Greg counted it last night. They’re still eight hundred pounds short.

 

The man—no, _boy_ —who steps forward is slighter than them and probably only two years older. He has the beginnings of facial lesions and a scraggly-looking beard that’s darker than the hair on the top of his head. He isn’t intimidating. Greg can beat the shit out of this guy one-handed. His friends as well. They’re all rake-thin, their skin so sallow it’s a wonder how Greg can’t see through it and find bone. The two of them against these four? They can win.

 

Only against four knives, Greg doubts it.

 

“Burke, you promised me.”

 

“We specifically said you do this alone,” Burke sneers. He brandishes his knife so that the blade gleams under the orange glow of lamp post. “This the cousin you keep talking about?”

 

Luke steps forward, keeping Greg behind him. “Let Greg go. He’s got nothing to do with this.”

 

“Fuck off, Rochewell. You’re dead already anyway.”

 

Greg spots it then. It’s a broken grocery cart pushed beside a few garbage bags, just within reach. Greg stares at it then at Luke.

 

_Turn around, Luke._

“You guys are insane,” Luke snaps. He shifts his weight, and, _yes_ , his body is now angled ever so slightly to Greg. Luke turns his head. Their eyes meet.

 

Greg grabs hold of the cart and hurls it forward, knocking Burke and one of his friends off his feet. “Come on, Greg,” Luke yells and they’re off, tearing down the empty street. The path is slippery with rainwater and Greg nearly trips. Luke stops him by grabbing hold of his forearm as they run.

 

“If we die, I’ll fucking murder you in my afterlife,” Greg pants as they duck in a narrow alleyway.

 

“If we die, we’re dead,” Luke bites.

 

Behind them, Greg hears footsteps running towards them, accompanied by a litany of swearing. Stay calm, he reminds himself because Luke’s losing it already. He can see the whites around his eyes, that all too-familiar look of fear. They can’t afford to be scared at the same time.

 

“In here,” he orders, taking the path to his left. It’s narrow enough that they have to run through it sideways, and Greg hisses when a nail snips through the front of his shirt. Going to need a shot for that, he thinks as Luke nearly crashes into him.

 

It’s the wrong path. Beside him, Luke swears loudly upon seeing the brick wall in front of them. “Fuck,” he says and this time, it’s quieter, defeated. The sounds of Burke and his friends are getting louder. Any minute now and they’ll catch them.

 

Greg’s trying to search for a way out when Luke forcefully shoves him behind a stack of crates. “The fuck?” he starts but Luke hisses at him to stay quiet. He grabs Greg’s head and pushes him down, until his back hits the dirt floor.

 

“Luke!” Greg yells. “What the fuck are you doing?”

 

Luke hisses at him again. “Just trust me, alright? Can you do that?”

 

There’s still fear in his eyes and the words are desperate. Greg swallows hard. He almost says ‘no’ because just one look at him tells Greg he’s going to do something stupid. But he can’t bring himself to do it. They’re programmed like that trusting each other far too much to be considered healthy.

 

“Okay.”

 

“I want you to hide here until you can’t hear us anymore,” Luke says quickly. “I’m going back to meet them and lead them away from you. Get out of here, find a police officer, and get them here. It’s me they want.”

 

Greg stares at him. “Luke, you’ll go to prison. They have something on you. They’ll—”

 

“I know! But between that or getting you killed with me, I’d choose prison anytime.”

 

He squeezes Greg’s shoulder reassuringly, and before Greg can stop him, before he can even call him stupid, Luke runs off.

 

* * *

 

 

Greg doesn’t know how long he waits there. A few seconds maybe, or perhaps something like five minutes. When he gets up it feels as if he’s become numb to everything. The world is muted, the silence deafening, and it’s only when he nearly trips over a broken beer bottle that he remembers what he ought to do.

 

He runs but he doesn’t feel panicked. This is his specialty: keeping calm under pressure.

 

_He’ll be alright. He may be stupid but he’s fast. They won’t hurt him._

 

The police station looms in front of him in no time at all, but Greg hesitates at the steps.

 

 _Bad neighbourhood, probably a lot of people playing pranks on them. They won’t believe you, especially when you’re dressed like this._ Think _, Greg. What can you do to get their attention?_

_Easy. Injure yourself._

Inside his pocket, Luke’s switchblade sits. Greg takes it out and, without a moment of hesitation, positions it over his left brow.

 

* * *

 

“Idiot.”

 

“Nice to see you, too.”

 

Luke laughs before he doubles over and coughs up blood. A police officer helps him up. Blood trickles down from the gaping wound on his back, just an inch to the right of his spine. It isn’t deep but the sight of it makes Greg’s gut clench.

 

“I didn’t kill them,” Luke tells him in a low voice. His face is ashen from blood loss and Greg has half a mind to shove a cloth in his mouth to stop him from talking. “I did manage to stab Burke’s foot with a beer bottle. Lost them sometime after that.

 

“How’d you find me anyway?” Luke asks as he stumbles in the back of the police car with Greg.

 

Greg grins at him. They shouldn’t be smiling but it feels exhilarating to have this over with, to have Luke sitting here alive. “Luke,” he says, “you’re the only person I know who’ll willingly hide in a sewer.”

 

* * *

 

“Mycroft.”

 

It’s meant to be nonchalant, meant to sound cool and composed. But Greg sees Mycroft standing there in a wrinkled shirt and the trousers he hates so much because they feel strange, and Greg can’t help it—he’s grinning because Mycroft’s here at the unholy hours of the morning, looking like he was too worried about him to care about his appearance, and fuck it, how can you _not_ be happy to see that? What starts out as a tentative step towards him turns into a full-out run. He doesn’t stop until he feels Mycroft’s body against his, warm and compact and perfect against his own.

 

“We’re attracting attention,” Mycroft whispers. Greg can feel the stares of the nurses and doctors passing by but he doesn’t give a damn. He tightens his hold on Mycroft, sure that he’s probably squeezing him too tight, but Greg can’t bring himself to let go yet. Mycroft as well, it seems, as his fingers have tightened on the back of Greg’s jacket.

 

“You said—” he starts but Mycroft shakes his head.

 

“I know.”

 

He releases Greg then gives him a once-over. He knows he looks like shit. They’ve been in the hospital for hours and the only thing that’s keeping him up is the acrid hospital coffee and Luke’s parents, both of whom are with Luke at this moment with Greg’s mother. Greg’s throat is raw from having explained things so much, making sure to keep the part about Greta and Alice out.

 

“I look like shit,” he says.

 

Mycroft frowns at the gash on his forehead. “I did that,” he tells him. “I’m okay, honestly.”

 

“And Luke?”

 

Greg shrugs. “He’ll be okay. He’s telling his parents already. Not everything, I guess. But enough.”

 

They take a seat on a bench and Greg immediately leans against Mycroft, as if his brain’s finally caught up with the demands of his body. He suppresses a yawn. “I’ll tell you everything,” he promises. And in a quieter voice, one meant only for Mycroft’s ears, he adds, “We’re still in trouble.”

 

* * *

 

“Relocated?”

 

Mycroft nods. It’s been three days since the incident. Luke’s healing up quite nicely and according to his parents, he’ll be taken to a rehabilitation centre as soon as his stitches have dissolved. “It’s for the best,” Luke said. “And if I’m there, they can’t reach me.”

 

Greg reaches up to scratch at the cut on his forehead only to have Mycroft’s hand still him. “That will scar if you do that,” he warns.

 

“Yeah, I know. But are you sure?” He frowns. “If Greta and her sister aren’t there anymore, where are they?”

 

He expects a proper answer but Mycroft only shakes his head.

 

“That’s the thing. I don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

Somewhere in one of the many skyscrapers of New York City, a man with wolf’s eyes smiles as two names are added to his roster: Greta and Alice Bryant. The younger one is damaged, poor girl, he’ll have to do something about that. Don’t touch them for another five years or so, don’t let the younger go to his wilder clients for the first time. These things must be kept in careful consideration and if all else fails, relocate them. But don’t kill them. Oh no, he needs a living witness and he’s already had everyone else killed or relocated to god knows where (in Siberia, he quite likes using Siberia).

 

Well, everyone except that…oh what was his name again—oh yes, that Rover boy. Or Rockwood? Rochewell? Something like that. He’s not really important. The cousin is more important, and only because he leads to the prize, oh yes, one of his little brothers. Boy’s heading into politics. In a few years, they’ll meet; it’s inevitable.

 

Here is an efficient job description for Mr Sherrinford Adams: a pimp, a human resource, and a minor official of a drug cartel in Mexico whose trade runs as far as Europe, where skinny little teenagers run around either using or selling their products. He has more money than he knows what to do with. To everyone else, he’s the kind of person rich enough that it’s considered rude to question what he does for a living. He chooses secrets over money when it comes to payment. People know his name. His fake name, not his real one, by the way. Most people don’t know his face.

 

Here is what he has in common with his half-brother Mycroft: they both choose to remain in the shadows.

 

Here is what he has in common with his other half-brother Sherlock: they’re both a little insane.

 

Picture the drug business as chain mail. In England, an ignorant boy (kill him) Burke is stabbed in the foot and brought to a hospital where he complains of a Luke Rochewell and his relative Greg Lestrade. In the hospital occupied by Luke Rochewell, Greg Lestrade is seen by one of those silly teenagers hugging his pre-bond mate. One automatically assumes they’re rich and a gun is lowered, research is to be had. In the drug business, there is always revenge, unless of course, money stops it. They get a hold of the name Holmes and because Sherrinford Adams has made himself responsible for all connections (the bridge of all bridge, you might say) he’s called and asked for advice.

 

If you cannot kill them, you blackmail them.

 

In a few years, he’ll meet his brother. This is not the time. Sherrinford keeps Lestrade and Rochewell’s secret tucked in his mind, the perfect net to catch Mycroft with.

 

Oh, he doesn’t plan to hurt him, don’t be stupid.

 

It’s just better to have someone else’s darkness cupped in your hands, to be exposed if the need arises.

 

Everyone is guilty of something.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I lied in TNK. Sherrinford's a shithead. But don't worry, he can be nice.
> 
> Note: to understand the next chapter, you' should have read chapter eight of TNK as it skips to four years later. So the next chapter is before they get married but after Greg's knocked up.


	14. The Age Old Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Events set after chapter eight of TNK and merges with chapter fifteen, meaning they have kids, get married, and a bunch of fluffy crap. Yes, it's fluffy, you have been warned.

Greg figures it must be bad form to see your (possible) wedding cake floating in the toilet, somewhere in there with the pizza he had for lunch and the jam on toast he had for breakfast.

 

Behind him, Mycroft frowns at the mess he made before kneeling until he’s at Greg’s eyelevel (well, near his eyes anyway, the tall bastard). He’s wearing a pale blue button down than calms Greg’s mind while at the same time, makes his stomach ripple queasily. Greg closes his eyes and breathes, taking in the smell of bile and cleaning products and Mycroft’s cologne. “I’m going to throw up again,” he announces. “No offense.”

 

They wait for five minutes and when Greg doesn’t lean over the toilet bowl again, Mycroft takes a risk and leans against him. “That’s enough cake testing for today,” he says and Greg nods, keeping one hand over his mouth lest his stomach turns over again.

 

* * *

 

 

The thing is, this isn’t unexpected because they were destined to marry the moment they had their pre-bond. And written with that, probably in a sub clause or in fine print is that they ought to produce kids to continue the family line. The thing is, if you’re an Omega who forgot to use birth control (or in this case, took the wrong pills) and then had some random ‘oh shit I’m feeling kind of horny so I ought to distract you from whatever paper you’re filling so we can fuck on that desk’ sex, then it’s bound to happen.

 

Greg just didn’t realize it would happen to him sooner.

 

He’s twenty-one-years-old. He still has three months left of uni. He still lives with his parents for goddsake because his school’s close enough that he only has to ride his bike to go to it. And Mycroft may have already graduated but he’s only twenty-two and he’s still starting on his…whatever position in the government he has because Mycroft doesn’t describe it very well and politics kind of bores Greg (sorry, My). Yes, they have money. Yes, they’ve been together forever. And yes, it was bound to happen anyway. But there’s no denying that they’re a bit too young to raise a family.

 

Fuck it. He’s Greg Lestrade. If he can save his best friend from getting murdered by a small drug ring, bully his parents into letting him take Criminology (because fuck you, Sherlock, just because it all started with Tintin doesn’t mean he won’t make a good detective), ignore Luke’s cries of ‘but you hate the rules’ (he’s with Mycroft who’s an even bigger control freak than Adolf Hitler; he doesn’t hate _all_ rules), and succeed in not getting killed when, as a form of revenge, he threw Sherlock’s stupid childhood bee/bear toy in the wash (thus, getting one of its eyes removed), then he can certainly do this.

 

“I can’t do this.”

 

John stares at him with concern, then with pain when the seamstress circling him accidentally pricks his shoulder with a pin. “Ouch! What do you mean you can’t do it?”

 

“Obviously, he’s just anxious. Your feeble mind takes things too literally, John.”

 

“Twat.”

 

“No fighting,” Greg barks before Sherlock can retaliate. Through the mirror, he sees him roll his eyes before hissing when he shifts in his seat and a pin pokes through his skin.

 

“Get these blasted things off me,” he snaps at the seamstress’ assistant who quickly comes to his aid with a fearful look. John tries to give her an apologetic smile but the girl, probably in fear of provoking Sherlock, doesn’t look at him. Their suits match and anyone who doesn’t know them better will think they’re a couple. Technically, with the pre-bond, they are but over the years their relationship has only moved from childish fighting to a more amicable one. Greg doesn’t see it moving any further for now.

 

When all the pins are removed Sherlock stands up and takes off the blazer he’s wearing. At fifteen, Sherlock still looks too scrawny in a suit but, somehow, it suits him. He’s also become far too attractive for his own good, making Mycroft more protective of him, especially since the Mathews incident. It’s affecting John as well. Greg catches him watching Sherlock’s movements as the younger boy slinks out of the room. Lust, not love, Greg notes. There’s a big difference between the two.

 

Greg’s not worried. John’s a good guy. He won’t take advantage of Sherlock.

 

A while later, the seamstress releases them. Greg takes off the suit he’ll wear while John struggles out of his own. “Neckties,” John mutters with a glare at the one hanging around his neck, “are the bane of my existence.”

 

“Poor you,” Greg answers in a sardonic tone. He helps John out of it then throws it on top of the small pile on the floor.

 

“Just because you’re used to wearing those things.”

 

The room, which already looks posh thanks to the walls-turned-mirrors, have plush armchairs in a half semicircle facing the back wall. John takes a seat in the one nearest to him, sighing happily as he sinks into it. “Can’t believe that drained the energy out of me,” he groans. He cracks one dark blue eye open. “So why the nerves now, Greg?”

 

Greg shrugs. He doesn’t know, to be honest. He’s done nearly everything else, done the things expected of him, and none of them made him think of how drastically his life will change until the suit. Not even the fact that he’s four weeks pregnant struck an impact.

 

It’s not that he doesn’t want the kid. Didn’t he just tell Mycroft that he’d leave him if he didn’t want it, because fuck, he _hates_ abortion when it’s absolutely unnecessary. It comes from being an only child and hearing all sorts of stories about his miscarried siblings. Not to mention that the thought of having a little Mycroft running around is kind of fascinating. A little kid who thinks everyone in the world is odious but who’ll smile at them anyway just to please them. Or a little Mycroft with Sherlock’s personality—but Greg doesn’t really want to think about that.

 

Maybe it’s because everything’s happening so fast that he barely has time to focus on one thing. There’s school to think about, and getting married, not to mention getting a place for themselves. Well, Mycroft’s taking care of that last one and their parents are dealing with the second one, but still. He’s never been far away from home for a long period of time and the thought of living in London permanently is overwhelming.

 

John picks up one of the cups of tea on the coffee table and takes an experimental sip. When Greg slumps further down his chair, John’s eyes land on his flat stomach, his face adopting that half-captivated, half-nervous look of someone who finds something interesting but not to the point that he wants to delve into it. Greg tolerates it, mostly because it’s a bit flattering that something that happens regularly can be so fascinating to someone outside his family. Not that John is a stranger, but still.

 

“Alpha male most likely,” Greg answers when John asks the most common question. “Mycroft’s family’s full of them. Most of their first born kids are.” He says this last one quietly, lest Sherlock come back. Sherlock doesn’t like to be reminded that in a family of Alphas he sticks out like a sore thumb, and Greg doesn’t want to be the cause of another sulk.

 

“So…if Sherlock and I do, er, you know, get together…I’ll be that kid’s uncle, right?”

 

“Uh, yeah.” Greg stares at him. “Is that a bad thing?”

 

“Don’t know.” He squirms in his seat, the awkwardness of the question finally settling in his mind. John doesn’t think about Sherlock as anything more than a friend and Sherlock doesn’t think about John at all unless John’s in the room with him. John, at eighteen, has yet to grow out of that cocky ‘I know everything there is to know’ attitude universal to teenagers everywhere, an attitude which Greg is more than glad to be clear off because remembering the shit he’d done at John’s age scratches away at his self-respect.

 

It makes him feel kind of old, to be honest.

 

“Let’s get married,” Mycroft said and Greg told him yes because he’ll always say yes to that question and really, he’s already pregnant and bonded to the guy, might as well go back that step they skipped. The engagement ring is like the one Mycroft doesn’t wear on his hand (it hangs on a chain around his neck, hidden under his shirt because it’s much safer that way). It’s a silver band that almost looks plain until you put it in the light and see the intricate designs carved into the metal and decided, yup, that’s money right there.

 

The thing about marriage is, it’s different from bonding. Bonding, the permanent one, is just for the two of them. Getting married means he actually belongs in Mycroft’s family and vice-versa. It means that he’ll have to fight his way for their approval and Greg hates it because he doesn’t like more than half Mycroft’s family. Not to mention that Mycroft’s never even met his extended one. It’s a bit like jumping in a shark-infested body of water.

 

John drinks the rest of his tea happily. Greg tries to do the same but the tea makes him nauseous and he quickly abandons it. This is the highlight of John’s day, he muses: sex and a pint and some good tea after and Greg can’t help but think _you are seriously going to regret every stupid, irresponsible thing you’ve done once you hit your twenties._

* * *

 

 

“So we’re invited to this thing, yes?” Keith Sojal asks. He kicks his legs up the chair opposite him then gives a smile at waitress passing by. A flash of perfect white teeth against olive skin, it’s Sojal’s favourite tactic to get laid. Frances turns so that Sojal can’t see her face and rolls her eyes at Mycroft who gives her a conspiratorial grin.

 

The truth is, with the exception of Frances, Mycroft dislikes most of his friends from school, Sojal especially. Luke summarizes it perfectly when he hears of Sojal. “Keith Sojal is a twat,” he never fails to say and Mycroft couldn’t agree more. Sojal’s the one, who when they were younger, would often come up to Mycroft and tell him that Greg wasn’t good for him, that Greg was probably cheating behind his back, and when he thought Mycroft wasn’t looking, would go to Greg and shamelessly flirt with him. Greg’s responses were much like Luke’s, only a bit more violent. “Keith Sojal is a motherfucking creep who flirts with everyone he sees because he thinks everyone’s willing to go down on him. His cock’s probably bigger than his brain which is worrying since that thing’s probably only two inches long,” is what Greg says and well, Luke’s summarization is more family-friendly and that description always makes Mycroft laugh when he plays it in his head.

 

The only reason why Sojal isn’t dead in a ditch is that his family does business with them. And while Mycroft no longer holds the reins on the company, leaving everything to Ingfred and his more capable cousins (unless of course he fathers a kid willing to do the job), it’s not exactly good to have the heir of Sojal Industries killed for disrespecting Mycroft’s mate.

 

In the future, perhaps.

 

“Put him next to Rochewell in the wedding,” Frances suggests once Sojal has excused himself to go to the loo. “Those two hate each other.”

 

“And risk a fight happening in the middle of the ceremony?” Mycroft shakes his head. He can already imagine it. Two arrogant Alphas seated next to each other during a droning sermon? No thank you. Luke’s attitude didn’t change much when he left rehab, clean both physically and mentally. Whatever demons are still afflicting him, Luke hides well behind the boyish grins and the immature growls. The only change that happened is that Luke’s developed this look of fearing a punch in the face, subtly hidden underneath that cocky attitude. Frankly, Mycroft doesn’t disapprove of the lack of change because Greg’s more than happy to have his annoying friend back to normal.

 

Frances pats his shoulder comfortingly. “You,” she says, “will make a great husband and a great father. Don’t mind what Keith says. He’s a twat.”

 

“So I’ve been told.” The ring on her finger catches his eye. Frances has been married for four months to a skinny Korean who’s the son of a business associate of her father. Said skinny Korean has also been Frances’ boyfriend for years but as Mycroft rarely pays attention to his friends’ lives when he knows all too well that no harm will come to them, he’s always secretly perturbed when those boyfriends/girlfriends become husbands/wives. Still, Mycroft isn’t too assured by what she said. He supposes it’s just natural to be cynical about certain things when you come from a dysfunctional family. It isn’t that he doubts Greg’s affections. It’s merely a natural response, one that Mycroft can stamp out in seconds. It’s something Sherlock can’t or refuses to control.

 

No one important disapproves of Mycroft’s proposal, not even his mother who’s doing her best to guide him because Sherlock won’t let her do the same. No one disapproves of the fact that in a few months, he’ll have a child of his own. Shocked, yes, because it _is_ a bit irresponsible to get your mate pregnant when your mate is still in school. Nearly finished with school, sure, but still. Besides, he has everything under control. They’ll be married in two months and as for the kid, Mycroft already has plans to sell his flat in London and buy a place for them. Neither of them have to give up their budding careers in order to raise the child. Mycroft has money to hire people to do it for them. It might not be the most ideal plan but it’s not as if they’ll never be there for the kid. Plus, Mycroft is positive that neither of them wants to regret leaving their future careers just to play house.

 

As for being a great father, he did practically raise Sherlock, didn’t he? Children from their families are either highly intelligent and aloof or highly intelligent and rebellious. And if his child’s going to be as difficult as his little brother, Mycroft can surely handle him.

 

“Missed me?” Sojal smirks as he slides in the seat opposite them, slinging one arm around the shoulders of the skinny blond he dragged here. She smiles at him blankly, automatically, like a machine programmed to serve Sojal. Pretty, but dull. Exactly Sojal’s type.

 

“You know, Mikey, you shouldn’t have bonded with Lestrade so fast.” Sojal lets out a mocking laugh that has Mycroft curling his hands into fists beneath the table. “I mean, do you honestly think that guy’s parent material?”

 

“He’s Mycroft’s _mate_ , Keith,” Frances hisses before Mycroft can come up with a response. “I know that he was annoying when we were younger but the least you can do is show some respect. God, you’re so full of yourself.”

 

Sojal’s eyes flash dangerously but before he can retaliate with a cutting remark, a waiter arrives with their champagne. The boy’s smile falters a little and he holds the wine closer to his chest, as if afraid that either Frances or Sojal will break it over his head. “Is everything alright, ma’am? Sirs?” he asks, directing the question to Mycroft.

 

“Oh no, everything’s lovely,” Frances replies, giving the boy her most winning smile.

 

“Charming,” Sojal says with a smile of his own.

 

 _Fake_. But Mycroft replies by reaching out his wine glass.

 

So no, Mycroft doesn’t like hanging out with his friends much.

 

* * *

 

 

The doctor hums in a disapproving town as she scribbles away on the prescription pad. Prenatal vitamins, Mycroft reads, squinting a bit to better decipher the untidy scrawl. “Make sure he takes there. As for the ultrasound schedules, talk to Jessa when you get out.” She looks over his shoulder to where Greg stands with that slightly pitying look. A hint of amusement (not his own), thrums in Mycroft’s chest. He turns and gives Greg a mildly offended look which the other just grins at.

 

“Don’t be offended when Merida disapproves,” Priam warned him. “It’s just that, doctors don’t really approve of pregnancy when you’re in your early twenties, even if you are bonded. There are a lot of health risks.”

 

As if Mycroft needed to hear that last one.

 

Beside him, Greg does his best to suppress a yawn, limbs trembling a little as he stifles it. An orderly walks by with a cup of vending machine coffee in his hand, the bitter scent trailing after him. Greg groans. “I miss coffee,” he says.

 

“Get decaff.”

 

“Decaff’s shit.”

 

An old lady glares at him, scandalized, but Greg ignores her or doesn’t notice her. It’s eight in the morning and Greg, after throwing up last night’s dinner, is exhausted. He still looks sleep-warm in his green shirt and the battered leather jacket that’s all that’s remained of his punk attire. Not that Greg’s suddenly gone posh, it’s just that his clothes are less ostentatious. He yawns again, scratches at the bond bite on his neck, and Mycroft’s heart clenches, that warm buzz finding its way to his chest and to their empathy link. Greg smiles at him, eyes still a bit bleary from lack of sleep, then says in the most condescending tone he can manage, “You’re such a sap.”

 

“You exaggerate. Let’s get you something to eat,” Mycroft offers and Greg mumbles a yes, his hand immediately finding Mycroft’s.

 

* * *

 

 

“No.” Greg’s head hurts a little and he groans then rubs his right temple with his fingers. “And _please_. Explain.”

 

Luke shrugs, making the feathers around his neck shrug, making whatever semblance of his sanity shrug and fly out the window and get crushed by a cab going ninety miles per hour. “You’re insane,” Greg cries. It comes out strangled.

 

“I,” Chuck huffs, “am terribly offended.” He crosses his legs and Greg can’t help but look. Chuck has incredibly nice legs. How has he not noticed that before?

 

Well, perhaps it’s because his two best friends have never dressed in women’s clothing before. Luke’s clad in a tight sequined dress that sparkles as he moves. He has lipstick smeared on his mouth and a mass of curly brown hair sits on top of his head. Chuck’s in a dress similar to Luke’s but obscenely short. He took off his wig when he came here and it sits on his lap like a black toy poodle, the sight of which makes Greg itch. They’re both wearing heels and when Luke stands, wobbling slightly, he practically looms over Greg.

 

“Hey, we’ve been planning this thing since we were fourteen.” Luke puts his hands on his hips. Only he lacks hips so his hands slide off. “We’re bringing you somewhere with blackjack and hookers. Deal with it.”

 

Somewhere in the house, a door slams shut and a few footsteps later, Greg sees Mycroft in his peripheral vision, looking a little disoriented from lack of sleep. Well, sex actually, but best not think about that when they have company. He stops when he sees them and Greg thinks what a picture they must make, Luke and Chuck especially. There’s a pause and just when Greg thinks Mycroft’s about to tell them off, he opens his mouth and says, “Don’t let him drink alcohol and bring him back unmolested.” He smirks at Chuck, ignoring Greg’s put-a-stop-to-this looks. “You look lovely, Estaves.”

 

Chuck raises a well-manicured middle finger at him. “Fuck you, too, Holmes.”

 

“That settles it,” Luke says as soon as Mycroft has disappeared, probably back to his own house where his brother is currently experimenting on John (what kind of experiment, Greg doesn’t really want to know). “Mycroft approves.”

 

“No, he doesn’t,” Greg insists. All his protests fall on deaf ears because twenty minutes later, he’s bundled up in his coat, sandwiched between those two in a cab that smells of horseradish. The cabbie smiles appraisingly at Luke and Chuck then turns bemused when he spots Greg. Alpha, Greg registers, and then remembers that oh, right, he’s pregnant and even though he doesn’t look it, he smells of it. Should have put on that cologne, he muses.

 

The blackjack and hookers place turns out to be a strip club. Greg takes one look at the building and thinks about jumping out of the cab and running for his life. The gaudy neon lights are cleverly placed to form two bodies that look like they’re about to be moulded into each other. Luke barks a laugh upon seeing a sign that is either a hotdog or one diseased penis. “You are not stripping before me,” he hisses at his companions, horrified at the idea. He has half a mind to sit in the back of that cab forever but Chuck drags him out, surprisingly steady in his five-inch heels.

 

“Relax,” Luke tells him. He wraps one arm around Greg, squeezing him gently. He reeks of lavender and jasmine and Greg coughs, nearly suffocating under the scent of that perfume. “We’re not stripping—we have others to do that. Nah, we lost a bet to Yuna Lee. They’re all inside, Greg, all our old friends. And we’re all cross-dressed.”

 

Greg eyes him critically. “You’re not a very convincing woman.”

 

“Git, I spent hours reading Cover Girl just to get my mascara right.” He tugs on his fishnet stocking with a snarl. “Damn thing’s making my crotch itch. How do girls even put these on?”

 

Leaving the mystery aside, Luke grabs Greg’s arm and leads the way. The bouncer raises one eyebrow at Greg but smiles good-naturedly when Luke grabs Greg’s hand and flashes the engagement ring under his nose.

 

The noise hits Greg like a gale and he’s momentarily struck dumb by the sight of boys and girls in various states of undress gyrating on a stage. “Wow,” he hears himself say as a girl with curly red hair bends herself in a manner that either looks sexy or uncomfortable, depending on how you look at it. Luke pats his shoulder knowingly.

 

“Over here, Greg!”

 

They’re all there. Yuna Lee, Emily Morris, Wes Norton, Quentin Grace. Even Dina Burgess is there with a burly man unknown to Greg sitting beside her. The only one who isn’t present in their group of friends is Lucca, but Greg didn’t expect him to be here, anyway, not when he has a family to take care of.

 

“Well, you clean up nicely, Rochewell,” Yuna remarks. The pencilled moustache has blurred a bit from the drink in her hand, but she does make a rather handsome man. Beside her Quentin grunts an agreement, looking far too uncomfortable in a black tank top and a skirt that barely skims his thigh. Norton’s the exact opposite. He’s in a skirt as well and he’s sitting with his legs far apart enough to be obscene. Chuck gently nudges them close with his leg.

 

“Marriage and a baby,” Emily croons as she leans forward to wrap her arms around Greg, the fake beard she put on tickling his ear. “We’re _so_ going to corrupt that child.”

 

“Um, hello, that child has a large portion of Mycroft in it,” Quentin reminds them. He yelps when Luke teasingly lifts the hem of his skirt, then recovers by slapping Luke’s chest with a wad of napkins. “Bet you that kid will be stuffy as fuck.”

 

“Don’t insult my mate when he’s not here,” Greg says half-heartedly. He feels inexorably happy. He doesn’t have to ask them whether or not they’ll be present in the ceremony. Across the table, Luke waggles his eyebrows playfully before having another go at Quentin’s skirt.

 

Strange how they’re still the same in spite of the abandonment of their usual getup. Emily and Chuck are studying business, Luke’s taking broad communication, Quentin and Yuna accountancy, Norton’s planning to become a laywer, and Dina’s about to get her degree in biochemistry. They go to different schools, in different places, and yet they’re still the same people Greg hung out with in an abandoned haunted house when they were younger.

 

So yes, Greg does love hanging out with his friends.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a house that jumps the line between classy and comfortable set in a good neighbourhood. Mycroft takes one look at it and thinks, yes, this one’s right.

 

Isa, the realtor, looks at him inquisitively.

 

“I’ll buy it.”

 

She looks startled but recovers quickly with her most winning smile. Then, with a dramatic sweep of her arm, she begins to show him the rest of it.

 

* * *

 

 

“No one’s dead, right?”

 

“No.”

 

“You’re not dying of cancer or anything like it, right?”

 

“No,” Mycroft repeats. “Where is this peculiar obsession with death coming from?”

 

Greg twists in his seat then says, “Your brother.”

 

Derek, Mycroft’s preferred driver, laughs then cleverly hides it in a small cough. Mycroft doesn’t mind. Derek’s been with them since Sherlock was three and in spite of being English himself (the Holmeses prefer to hire foreigners to keep a language barrier between them) he’s loyal enough to hide Mycroft’s indiscretions. Also, he has the same music taste as Greg, although this can become a bad thing at times.

 

Greg feeds the radio _London Calling_ then laughs when Derek bobs his head up and down like he’s in a mosh pit. “It’s _The Clash_ , My,” Greg says patiently when Mycroft mutters something about indecent music. “You have to like it.”

 

“You shouldn’t be allowed to ride in the passenger’s seat.”

 

“Ugh, the backseat’s boring.”

 

The car stops at a red light and Greg, with permission from Derek, manoeuvres his way to the backseat. “Careful,” Mycroft warns. He grunts when Greg half-lands in his lap then gently pushes him off until Greg’s seated by his side in a more dignified position.

 

“So where are we going?”

 

“It’s a surprise.”

 

Greg stares at him doubtfully but keeps quiet in favour of listening to another song.

 

* * *

 

 

The house is a three-storey building that’s grand enough for Mycroft’s taste. It’s half as old as the estate with the kind of architecture that can only exist during the Victorian era. But the golden brown wooden panelling inside gives it a more comfortable atmosphere, that and that large windows that look out at small garden. Greg leans against the banister, far enough that Mycroft has to grab him by the waistband of his jeans to steady him.

 

“I can’t believe you bought a house without telling me!” Greg exclaims. Mycroft would take offense but Greg’s tone is excited, flattered, even. He keeps turning around, like he doesn’t know where he should go first. Mycroft has to keep a firm grip on his hand when he practically runs up the stairs.

 

“Where’s the master bedroom?” Greg asks.

 

Mycroft opens the door to his left, revealing a large, airy room with two tall but slightly narrow windows at the southern wall. He turns to face Greg then blinks, startled, when he sees him beginning to unbutton his shirt.

 

“Might as well christen it right now,” Greg says with a slightly predatory grin.

 

There are a number of reasons why they shouldn’t. One, there are no curtains yet and if anyone in the building opposite theirs cares to look out their window for even just a mere second, they’d catch more than a glimpse of them. Two, there’s no furniture and the floor’s covered in a thin layer of dust. Three…Well, okay, Mycroft can’t really think of a three.

 

Greg covers his mouth with his own, nails dragging sharply on the back of his head. Mycroft grabs his hips and keeps him there, kissing him and kissing him until Greg pulls away, pupils blown wide with lust, and tells him, “Well, fuck me already.”

 

* * *

 

 

“We shouldn’t have done that. Your back will hurt for days.”

 

Greg stretches his arms over his head to prove to Mycroft that all is well. “I got what I want, though,” Greg quips, laughing when Mycroft tosses his shirt at him.

 

“Spoiled.”

 

“Yup.”

 

Outside, the sky has move from eggshell blue to a darker shade with traces of pink and gold to break the vastness of it. He watches Mycroft move to the window where he’s illuminated enough that Greg can see the evidence of what they did on his skin. His own bond bite aches from Mycroft’s teeth and what he’s come to know as his empathy link is buzzing with their mixed emotions so that Greg feels sensitive and light-headed. Like you’ve almost drowned, Mycroft’s mother had once said with a voice that was almost wistful.

 

Greg moves, stiff-limbed, and takes a seat on the window sill. “I wonder,” he says, smiling at Mycroft when he turns to him, “if we should mention that our kid was conceived when we had sex on your dad’s desk.”

 

Mycroft returns the smile, a small, almost imperceptible twitch of his mouth. “Don’t. It will ruin me forever. I’m supposed to be the gentleman in this relationship.”

 

Greg’s laugh fades when Mycroft rests a hand on his bare stomach, his pale fingers contrasting against Greg’s own tanned skin.

 

* * *

 

 

The actual wedding is boring.

 

Greg anticipated this. It doesn’t matter that he’s the one getting married. Weddings will always be boring to him. Opposite him, he sees Mycroft roll his eyes after the exchanging of vows and Greg has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing. They’re just words arranged to form something Mycroft’s relatives will find pleasing. Greg realizes that he should be bothered about the fact that neither of them really mean their vows, but the thing is, the whole wedding’s a bit of a farce anyway. Sherlock’s right in saying that after a bond, marriage is a bit anticlimactic.

 

“I’m tied to you forever,” Greg whispers in Mycroft’s ear afterwards, grinning a bit when Mycroft nips at his bottom lip with enough implication.

 

“Disgusting,” Sherlock mutters when he passes by. He’s finished smoking and he now reeks of his expensive cigarettes, the scent enough to make Greg’s mouth water. Instinctively, he digs his fingernails in the palm of his hand. Best not to go back to smoking, he thinks a bit sadly.

 

John offers them an apologetic grin then flushes when Sherlock grabs his hand and more or less demands him to dance with him because he’s bored. “John looks flustered,” Greg observes. He frowns at a waiter passing by with a tray of champagne glasses balanced in his hand. “Had too much to drink, maybe.”

 

Mycroft abandons him for a while, saying that he has to go entertain his guests. Greg lets him. It’s either that or go with Mycroft and Greg doesn’t really feel like standing there, listening to whatever joke Mycroft and one of his guests are exchanging. He take a seat at a table occupied by a little kid from Mycroft’s side of the family, smiling at the sight of Sherlock teaching John how to dance. John’s a bit of a mess and Greg winces for him. He searches the crowd then cringes at the sight of his mother and father dancing in a style that should have stayed and died in the seventies. He shudders inwardly and focuses on another pair.

 

The little kid climbs down his chair then runs to Ingfred’s table. Greg isn’t alone for long, however. Soon enough, Luke arrives, his tie unknotted and his hair a mess from his niece’s hands. The two-year-old squeals in delight as Luke deposits her off his shoulders and into his lap. “Naomi’s daughter is a biter,” Luke complains. He tilts his head, showing Greg a reddened ear where a familiar-looking silver hoop hangs.

 

“Is that your sentinel ring?”

 

“Yeah. Figured I should still wear it.” He beams at Greg, feigning nonchalance but Greg can see right through him. “This silver is hard to find, you know.”

 

“Sentimental bastard.”

 

“Git,” he says happily. He gently pushes his niece to Naomi’s direction then returns with a wineglass. Luke tips it, only to have Alanis grab it from him and drink the champagne herself. “You bitch,” Luke grouses.

 

“Right back at you, Jackal.” She ruffles his hair then plops right into Luke’s lap, ignoring the rather outraged look sent their way by a pale man with Sherlock’s hair. Luke tries to shove her off but Alanis wraps her arms around his neck until Luke gives up, muttering about stupid Australians.

 

“Your husband’s family is _fancy_ , Greg,” Alanis exclaims. She reaches over and pats his stomach. “When the kid’s born bring him or her to our place, alright? Old Abe’s looking for another marine biologist.”

 

“Fat chance,” Luke snorts. “Kid will probably turn into a dictator.”

 

“Unless we corrupt him.”

 

They share wicked smiles. Greg glares at them but before he can even tell them off for planning one rather dark and dangerous future for his kid, Alanis grabs Luke’s hand and drags him to the dance floor.

 

“Don’t make me dance,” Greg tells Mycroft as soon as his family’s released him from their clutches. He looks a bit weary but Greg suspects he’s the only one who truly notices. “I hate dancing.”

 

“We’ve done enough,” Mycroft answers. He smiles and then adds without any real menace, “I’d much rather watch John make a fool of himself.”

 

* * *

 

 

The most arresting sight of all is when young Sherlock Holmes knees Mr Keith Sojal in the groin for touching his arm in a rather suggestive manner. Mycroft, surprisingly, turns a blind eye to it.

 

Greg doesn’t mind the scandal at the reception. Sojal’s a twat, anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

“No, no, you have got to be joking.”

 

Priam holds up the greyscale image like a little kid showing off a new toy. The light shines on the glossy surface of the image and Priam has to adjust his hold. “It happens sometimes,” he explains calmly, in a voice that grates on Greg’s nerves. “You have two beans inside your belly, take it or leave it. Odds are, they’ll either be both Alphas or both Betas. Or one Alpha and one Beta.”

 

Greg reaches for the image but Mycroft gets to him first. “One bean hides behind the other,” Priam continues with a small pat on Greg’s shoulder. “Really, Merida should be the one to explain this to you, but I like delivering happy news.”

 

“Twins,” Mycroft says. He sounds a bit breathless and when Greg looks at him, he sees that Mycroft’s smiling and staring at the picture with fascination. “Wonderful.”

 

* * *

 

 

Seven months pregnant and Sherlock has taken to poking his stomach either with his fingers or with that intense stare he uses when observing things. Greg’s not sure what’s worse. Sherlock has already asked him if he can have one child to be the control of his experiments so Greg is wise to be wary of him. “You don’t look seven months pregnant,” Sherlock muses. Greg tries to move away but Sherlock has quick hands and soon enough, Greg finds himself hissing at the fifteen-year-old’s icy fingers against his skin.

 

“Didn’t they teach you anything? It’s always smaller when a guy’s carrying.” His growth is a bit worrying, however, as it looks more like he’s stuffed a rather thin pillow under his shirt. No one can deny that he’s pregnant but people do look shocked when they realize he’s been that way for seven months, not five. Merida, his doctor, assured him that it’s completely normal. Priam, perhaps in some misguided attempt to give comfort, explained to him that he grows inwards so that it will be twice as painful when the twins come out. “You’ll be sliced open anyway,” he said, smiling a bit. “Most guys don’t exactly have the hips for it.”

 

He’s very glad that Priam isn’t his regular doctor.

 

Greg jolts upright when Sherlock scratches at the underside of his stomach with one not-so-blunt fingernail. “Oi,” he hisses, pushing him away. “Careful.”

 

Sherlock stares at his stomach, eyes widening when the skin beneath shifts. He touches the spot where one of the children’s elbows poked him. Putting on his best smile, Sherlock asks, “Can I watch during the operation?”

 

“What? No!”

 

* * *

 

 

He feels that the gods have a twisted sense of humour when he gets stuck with Sherlock when it happens.

 

“Stop screaming,” Sherlock tells him in that placid tone that makes Greg want to strangle him. Only Sherlock is safely situated in the passenger’s seat, lazily texting Mycroft about Greg’s condition. Next to him, Derek’s nervously trying his best to avoid crashing the car. He looks at the rear view mirror, seeking assurance that Greg hasn’t died in the backseat.

 

“My brother will be forty minutes late. He’s in a meeting with his supervisor and the man’s odious enough not to understand what counts as an emergency and what doesn’t,” Sherlock drawls. He rolls his eyes when Greg lets out a strangled scream. “Oh for godssake you’ll be unconscious soon enough. I should call your parents as well, I suppose.”

 

“They’re…in Dublin,” Greg pants but Sherlock texts them anyway before tossing Greg’s phone back to him. It lands on the floor and Greg doesn’t bother to look for it. His whole body hurts, his stomach the most, and the pain’s deep enough that he can feel it in his bones. Misplacing a phone is a small price to pay for this.

 

The rest of it’s a blur of nurses and doctors and the sinking feeling of anaesthetic entering his system. The last thing Greg truly hears is Sherlock asking whether or not he can look at Greg while they slice him open.

 

The first thing he ought to do when he wakes up is kill the brat.

 

* * *

 

 

“Congratulations, nephew dear.” Priam offers him a congratulatory smile that’s slightly ruined by the coffee stain on the front of his shirt. Beside him, Sherlock’s muttering angrily and smelling of cigarettes and coffee. “Wouldn’t listen to me. Had to force him out of the room,” Priam explains while he rests his hand on Sherlock’s head rather fondly. Sherlock shakes him off then stalks to where Greg and their mother are. Greg’s looking a bit doped but he’s awake and even manages to give Mycroft a see-I-did-it grin.

 

“They cut me,” Greg tells him. “Hurts. At least I think it does.”

 

The twins have his hair, their skin pinkish and slightly wrinkled from birth but it’s blatant at first glance that they’re his and Greg’s. Mycroft takes a seat in the chair beside Greg’s and holds Baby Girl Holmes at the crook of his elbow. “One Beta, one Alpha,” Sherlock says, breaking the silence. He turns to Priam with a haughty grin, one that Priam returns unsurely. “I told you so.”

 

His smile disappears as soon as Mycroft’s mother places Baby Boy Holmes in his hands. Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath is audible to Mycroft’s ears. He watches as his brother stares at his son, eyes wide when the child opens his mouth to yawn. However, the look of pure fascination disappears within ten seconds and Greg has to get their son back in his arms as soon as Sherlock’s face moves to ‘bored’.

 

“We’ll let you two be,” his mother says. She kisses his cheek then the top of Greg’s head before she grabs Sherlock and half drags him out of the room.

 

* * *

 

 

“We never got a name for them.”

 

Mycroft breaks out of stupor that befell him as soon as Greg transferred their son into his arms. The expression he had upon walking in the room is one that Greg wants to keep in his memory forever, that slightly dumbfounded look that reminds Greg of the stupid fourteen-year-old he kissed for the first time. He feels sentimental from all this bonding and he can’t help but smile to himself. “A name,” Greg replies, chuckling when their daughter reaches for him blindly. He lowers his hand until his finger’s within reach. “Two names actually. I figured you guys had a tradition for naming kids or something so I didn’t bother to think of one.”

 

“We name children after relatives,” Mycroft says quietly. He shifts then furrows his brow when the small child begins to whine in distress. Mycroft cradles the back of his head and gently shushes him. “First-borns are often named after our sire. If we follow that this little one will be called Siger.”

 

Greg frowns at the idea. He can’t imagine calling his child that and can’t imagine Mycroft being comfortable with it. There’s only one Siger Holmes in Greg’s head and few memories of him are good.

 

“No.”

 

“No,” Mycroft agrees.

 

* * *

 

 

In the birth certificates, Mycroft writes Cedric Timothy Lestrade-Holmes and Beatrice Jane Lestrade-Holmes. Mycroft names the boy after Cedric the Saxon in Ivanhoe, a book they’d spent a whole year analysing, and Mycroft remembers all too well how Greg would pester him to please, just tell him what that character meant. Greg names the girl after Beatrice in the Divine Comedy, a choice Mycroft raised his brow at because Greg hated (hates?) that book with a passion. “To guide Cedric,” Greg explained with a small shrug. “Kid Alphas tend to get into a lot of trouble. Besides, I like that name. Sounds posh as well.”

 

In the future, Mycroft will wonder if somehow, Greg was able to tell their children’s personalities at his first glimpse of them.

 

For now, Mycoft’s content to cradle the two of them in his arms.

 

“We’re going to have two teenagers at the same time,” he says to Greg whose smile falters until it finally fades and emerges into dread.

 

“Well, shit.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those twins will grow up. They'll be about thirteen at the end of this, and as there are two short stories between Venn Diagram and Nowhere Man, you'll see them at eighteen. There will be more of John and Sherlock as this story progresses.


	15. The Devil in Armani

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg at work, Sherlock invading a party, and Mycroft meeting his dear older brother for the first time.

Here’s what crime and suspense movies and books show you: car chases, gun battles, Liam Neeson, and people defying gravity by leaping from one roof to the other to catch a murder. Plus, a massive explosion you can easily walk away from.

Here’s what they don’t show you: the paperwork.

You’d think working for the police would be more exciting, but if you’re only a constable working his way up the ranks, ninety percent of your time will be spent dealing with the paperwork your supervisors can’t be arsed to deal with. This is how Greg Lestrade finds himself spending his Wednesday afternoon, slumped in the back of his desk with a tower of reports in front of him. The sight is disheartening but he’ll be damned if he ever goes through with Mycroft’s suggestion to let him ‘help’ in his career. That’s cheating and, sure, Greg’s cheated on tests when they were younger (which, by the way, isn’t a step to hell or corruption no matter how many times teachers tell you that it is, because when you’re kids and everyone’s doing it, you don’t really have a choice) but this is different. 

Taking a deep breath, Greg reaches for the top of the stack, only to be stopped by a cup of coffee slipping into his hand.

“Trust me,” you’re going to need it.” PC Russo offers him a genuinely sympathetic smile which Greg returns weakly. It’s not that he dislikes Russo because really, how can you dislike someone who not only remembers the rookie’s name, but also acknowledges him as someone who isn’t just part of Scotland Yard. But he learned to be apprehensive of his co-workers, most of whom either enjoy teasing him for being the youngest member of the crowd, or look down on him because of his gender. Russo belongs to the first group so no one can really blame him for sniffing his coffee first before drinking it.

Instead of leaving, Russo takes his acceptance of the drink as an invitation for further conversation. She perches on the edge of his desk, carefully setting aside a smaller stack of papers to make room for herself. Her natural scent smells of scotch, and beneath the wariness Greg’s developed when in the presence of unbound Alphas, comes a strong urge to have a pint and a cigarette.

Mycroft won’t know, the rebellious part of his mind that’s never grown beyond fifteen goads. 

“How come you don’t talk much, Lestrade?” Russo asks, interrupting his thoughts. “We’ve had people your age before and all they did was talk. If they weren’t talking, they were sniffing some poor sod to get a leg over.”

“I’m bonded,” It doesn’t answer Russo’s question as to why he prefers to keep quiet while at work. It isn’t that he’s miserable working here because, sure, the paperwork sucks but someone’s got to do it, right? Yes, he’s young, but unlike those twenty-something-year-olds, he sees being young as a disadvantage in his profession. Open his mouth and he might say the wrong thing. Luke would tell him he’s being pathetic, but Luke, if he’s not in London, spends most of his time as a roadie for this indie rock back (which could have been them had they taken playing in bars seriously, but yeah, Luke went to rehab and has developed this fear of staying too long in the company of anyone under fifteen, and Chuck sells sports cars now so). Besides, Greg hardly listens to Luke for career advice anyway.

“Your mate nice?” Russo asks.

Mycroft’s nice to him and he’s nice to the kids. A good father, although not a very affectionate one. But Greg’s positive that he won’t get along with any of his co-workers. The thing about Mycroft is that he’s one of those people who were born to be handed to the world. But he’s no Ghandi; he doesn’t love everyone. It’s just that, Mycroft took one look at the world and decided that, if no one’s going to clean up the shit people do, then it’s going to have to be him. Much like Greg, actually. Greg doesn’t mind sharing Mycroft’s time because Mycroft doesn’t mind sharing him as well. They don’t have hero complexes as they both like to stay away from the limelight. It’s the satisfaction they crave when, after a job well done, they can sit back, take a look at their success, and think _I did this_.

“Yeah.” He ponders on it. “Well, depends on who he’s talking to.”

He doesn’t mention that he has two kids not even a year old because he’s not stupid enough to be judged as a neglectful parent. Currently, the twins are with Greg’s parents, to be brought back by Mycroft when he gets back from Barcelona (Mycroft, is at the moment, in Rome but Greg loses track of wherever it is Mycroft’s boss sends his mate to). Mycroft also employed Ingrid, a stiff-lipped Ukrainian woman who Greg feels would make any male feel effeminate when placed next to her, to look after the kids when neither he nor Mycroft can make it home. Which is almost always. Ingrid’s also very good at massaging his back so…yeah, Mycroft picked well.

Russo’s finished her own cup of coffee, and with it, her momentary interest in the newbie. She pats his arm then hops off the desk, her ponytail wringing to and fro as she approaches another constable. It’s not lascivious, the touch. Greg would know.

The thing they don’t show kids when playing detective movies? Most of them have an affair. One thing Greg is sure of is, the harder the work, the higher the risk of promiscuity. Being a constable, no matter how devoted to his work he may be, does not erase the fact that he’s a young omega with an Alpha no one’s ever met before. So yeah, Greg’s had his fair share of Alpha superiors glancing in his direction with interest, or if they’re bolder, have the gall to rest a hand on the small of his back. Greg finds it more ridiculous than worrying. He honestly doesn’t see the appeal because he’s got grey hair over his ears, as if his body had a bad reaction to the long nights and cheap coffee. It’s genetic; he’ll be grey by thirty because his dad did and his grandfather did, and really, what’s the appeal in someone with a young face and old man’s hair?

He’s contemplating whether or not he ought to report sexual harassment (because they haven’t done anything and if they do, Greg knows how to pack a punch) when his phone rings. 

“Yo.”

Greg breathes and braces himself. “Dad,” he says, “can you not?” Because there is nothing more mortifying than having your father act like a teenager just to piss you off. Greg checks to see if anyone cares that he’s using his mobile during work hours but it’s a slow day and from where he sits, he can see one of the sergeants playing Pokemon. “How are the kids?”

“Puked on me,” his father says in a rather cheerful manner. “Your son’s asleep and your daughter’s using him as a pillow. I had no idea twins are so fascinating.”

In the background, he hears his mother talking with someone Greg thinks might be Mycroft’s mother. “By the way,” his father continues. He’s moving, the sound of the conversation fading until the background noise is replaced by the sound of running water. “Charles came by a while ago to see the kids. Told me to ask you if you’re going?”

“Going where?”

“That Elgin kid’s funeral? Leaf Elgin. You know—small, blond, slightly bug-eyed. You went—”

“To the Altairs’ house, I know. Shit, he’s dead? How?”

“Shot himself,” his father says straightforwardly. “Chuck’s going and a few of your old schoolmates as well.”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll see if I can make it.”

Elgin, dead. They weren’t friends and Elgin was the weird kid obsessed with creepy folklore and urban legends, but still, when you’re twenty-two, you’re still young enough not to think about dying. There’s a sinking feeling in Greg’s chest that he fights because, no, he’s not going to pretend that he was close to Leaf. The least he can do is be honest.

A door slams open and with it arrives DI Strednick, a walrus-like man who appointed himself to be Greg’s guardian the moment he set eyes on him. He rubs at his rotund belly them beams upon seeing Greg. Greg quickly pockets his phone then grabs a folder to appear busy. “Working hard, boy?” Strednick booms. “Come on, take a break.” 

Greg opens his mouth to protest but decides better against it. He nods and Strednick more or less grabs him and drags him out of the door. He’ll just work overtime again.

* * *

He isn’t supposed to be here.

It’s Saturday and he has no plans of taking the train back home, but really, he shouldn’t be here. Beside him, Clive Redford offers a somewhat apologetic smile. Clive called him earlier this morning, asking his help to track down the person who’d hacked through his email account. He’s a slight, nervous wreck of an Alpha with an alarming lack of common sense that Sherlock finds more disquieting than annoying. He heard about Sherlock from John, of course, as Clive lives in the flat about John’s and occasionally goes down to borrow sugar or to invite John to have a pint or two down the pub. Sherlock’s talked to him before, an awkward conversation on Clive’s part which Sherlock can’t be bothered to remember. It may have been about jellyfish or something related to Clive’s course, Sherlock isn’t sure.

Once, Clive kissed his cheek, thinking that Sherlock was a Frenchman who appreciated thanks in the form of an intimate gesture. John was none too happy about that and may have dislocated Clive’s wrist when he accidentally let biology take over his common sense.

That was entertaining.

“John’s here somewhere,” Clive says rather unsurely. He scans the crowd, searching for a sign of John amongst the throng of bodies currently writhing to an annoying pop song. He scratches the back of his neck then sheepishly adds, “Um, we always have parties like this after exams. So…er, yeah, it’s a bit wild.”

Sherlock’s never been to a party like this before as no one ever invites him and he really isn’t interested, anyway. How, he thinks with disgust, is this fun? He sees people groping each other, kids in various states of undress, a failing student doubling over to vomit on the sofa, a couple of Alphas doing lines near a sign that says Thank You for Not Smoking. Sherlock sidesteps as a blond girl runs for the restroom, one hand clutched over her mouth. The air reeks of the sour smell of beer and vomit and his eyes are beginning to water from the smoke. He looks at Clive again and gives him a look that conveys everything he feels. Clive shrugs.

“We’re nineteen,” he says as if that’s an excuse. “We don’t get a chance to do this in the future.”

“I wouldn’t want to do this even if the other choice is getting myself chopped up and thrown in a sack.” Clive blinks at him owlishly, the dumbfounded look universal to university students prone to doing all-nighters. “You’re aware that you’re not being productive by attending things like this?”

“We’re nineteen,” Clive repeats.

“Of course.”

As he squeezes through the crowd, a few people turn their heads and eye him curiously. He’s the youngest person in the room and a bit overdressed in his usual getup. The uniform here consists of faded shirts and loose jeans or the optional drawstring pyjama bottoms. And of course, he has John’s scent on him which means he’s practically holding up neon-lit sign saying Property of John Watson. A boy Sherlock recognizes as one of John’s friends waves at him then motions to where John is.

Sherlock finds him.

John is laughing, slightly inebriated as he has one hand clutching the back of a chair for support, and another holding a can of beer. His face is flushed and his hair is a mess and there’s a trace of lipstick smeared on his mouth. The girl he’s talking to wears the same red shade John has on his face. She’s small and curvy and has a bust size that calls your eye to it and oh—

Sherlock’s brain activity practically crashes when she flings her arms around John’s neck and kisses him deeply.

He knows John sleeps with other people because Sherlock isn’t interested. Not yet, not ever maybe. But he’s never seen John become intimate with one of them.

It feels, Sherlock thinks with a bit of surprise, like having someone run you over again and again until you’re completely flattened.

* * *

Vinny Bridgewater is the students’ common room, rummaging in the fridge for something remotely edible when Sherlock Holmes perches on the edge of the counter and asks for a demonstration.

“Show me.”

“Show you what?” Vinny asks without a moment’s pause. There’s a box of apple pie on the top shelf with Lana DeGrandis’ name written on its side in permanent marker. On top is a clear instruction not to eat it. Vinny pulls it out anyway and sets it on the coffee table then offers Sherlock some.

“No.” Sherlock frowns at the pie then adds, “Show me how to give blowjobs.”

Vinny blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You know what I said.”

They aren’t friends and even though Vinny’s not part of the crowd that likes to mock Sherlock both for his gender and his antisocial personality, it’s a bit of a strange request coming from him. What he knows about Sherlock Holmes can fit in a small notepad. He’s sixteen and he’s that combination of pretty and handsome common to those half-starved male model faces such as his, which is a bit of a disadvantage if you’re an Omega who goes to an Alpha school. He’s intelligent and rich, but that’s not uncommon here. He solves small crimes as a pastime and last year, Jason Mathews tried and failed to force himself onto Sherlock, resulting in a scandal that the school did their best to keep away from the media. He’s a boarder and lives somewhere in Sussex or something, Vinny isn’t sure, and he rooms with Victor Trevor, that skinny boy who serves as a photographer for the school newspaper. He’s also one of the five students who has a pre-bond. Vinny saw his mate once with Sherlock and Victor, a stocky attractive-enough blond who’d glared at Sherlock’s suitors in that primitive _fuck off he’s mine_ way but smiled at them good-naturedly when he managed to reign in his baser instincts.

Yes, _suitors_. It doesn’t matter that Sherlock has a pre-bond. Vinny has to admit that the boy’s a looker and well, if you’re the only Omega present, whatever faults you have disappear in a haze of pheromones.

He’s attractive but he’s not Vinny’s type because he’s an Alpha who fucks Alphas and is fucked by Alphas, and is a bit of the school slut but whatever. Usually his partners are boys because really, they act all disgusted to the fact that he wears women’s clothing after classes, but puh-leaze they feel more emasculated when they have their cock up his arse because a six-foot-tall Alpha moaning for your cock? How can you not feel powerful when you’re doing _that_? 

As for the fact that he likes wearing skirts and dresses, it isn’t that he wants to become a girl, nor an Omega one at that. It’s simply because he looks fucking fabulous in them and no one’s going to stop him from wearing that Coco Chanel dress because bitch please, he can work it better than those pampered little sticks they’re calling super models.

But back to the task at hand.

This is Sherlock Holmes, sixteen-year-old baby detective extraordinaire who just brings out the protective Alpha in Vinny because as prickly as he is, there’s no denying the fact that he’s an innocent to the things that matter in society. And he’s asking Vinny for sex tips.

“Are you asking help to seduce your mate?”

“No.” Stubborn, angry. A little disgusted but also a little ashamed. Vinny isn’t certain if he’s imaging that last one, though. Sherlock picks at his fingernails, obviously avoiding meeting Vinny’s gaze and something about the gesture just makes Vinny think oh, shit he knows where this is going, bring on the drama-bomb. “I’m just curious.”

“Sweetheart,” he says gently, “you can’t always associate sex with love. You can’t associate it with respect either.”

“That isn’t what I’m doing,” the boy snaps. He’s jumped off the counter and is now curled up in one of the armchairs facing the telly, knees drawn up to his chest. His hands, startlingly pale from where they poke out of his oversized dark green jumper, have chemical burns on them. His fingers twitch at Vinny’s scrutiny but for the most part, he keeps still. 

“Don’t you have any older siblings to tell you about things like that? Or a parent?” Sherlock makes a face. “Okay, none, I’m guessing. Friends?”

“I don’t have friends,” Sherlock mutters. He says it like it’s a fact that shouldn’t be dwelled on and Vinny wants to tell him, that’s not true, idiot, you hang out with Victor all the time. It’s still sad, though, and Vinny gives up warring with himself. He smooths down the pleats of his skirt then tells Sherlock to scoot over. 

“I’m going to tell you a few tips but I’m definitely not going to show you,” Vinny says. He takes out his school id then uses it to divide the cake into eight parts. “And you have to eat first,” he adds with a disapproving frown at Sherlock’s thin frame. “God knows you need it.”

* * *

It’s that kind of hotel, the one where the soap is carved into the elaborate shape of a seashell and where the concierge has a permanent sneer on his face, regardless of who he’s addressing. On his first day he sees a French diplomat with one arm around an Omega twenty years his junior. On his second, a Japanese ambassador with a cocaine addiction, and on his third, the husband of an English bureaucrat walking by with downcast eyes and a bruised mouth. It’s the kind of hotel that hides the indiscretions of the rich and the powerful, and Mycroft hates every second that he’s in here. But this is his job which is to make sure that the current politician in his care is kept in check. This time, it’s a rail-thin Beta running for the upcoming elections, who has a penchant for dark lipstick, a tendency to call Mycroft ‘boy’, and needs to have an amphetamine or two every now and then. Mycroft’s dislike for her is great enough that he has to forcefully rail in any of his criticisms. She’s dull and cruel and idiotic which just goes to show that they really let anyone run for office nowadays. 

But she isn’t his priority, not really. He’s also gathering the indiscretions of other politicians because, well, his job isn’t the kind where loyalty is a requirement. He’s good at blackmailing people, he realized long ago. It’s a bit of a talent because not every cone be easily ashamed of heir faults, so Mycroft has to worm through their history and nitpick at the stupid things they tried to hush up.

He’s in the lobby, lounging on one of the white sofas near the front desk. A blond woman sits on the one nearest to him with a phone in hand, playing a game. She’s singing under her breath, a song Mycroft realizes is “Memory” from the musical they showed last night. Mycroft glances at her and takes in a few surface details. She’s well-groomed with the kind of clothes that are simultaneously professional and seductive, but not as expensive as the clothes worn by the others staying here. A paramour, then. Not a favourite, but certainly likable, and not an uncommon enough sight to hold his attention so he takes out his own phone and scans through the messages.

The twins are in Ingrid’s care while Greg’s at a crime scene up in Dartmoor. His mother has dinner with Priam. Sherlock is in Trafalgar Square with Victor and John is in his Anatomy class. The replies of the man looking out for his brother are late and undetailed and Mycroft contemplates replacing him when he gets back.

It’s obtrusive and unethical to keep close tabs on his relatives but he’d rather be deemed as rude and annoying than be forced to deal with a mishap.

The girl’s stopped humming and Mycroft gives her another once-over, her silence suddenly feeling strangely ominous. She’s pocketed her phone and with her hair out of her face a flash of recognition goes through Mycroft.

He recognizes her in the grainy photocopy of her school id, her face still the same but with her features more defined and her long hair cut to her shoulders. Luke would freeze at the mere sight of her, one year of rehab and therapy flying out the window in seconds.

A middle-aged Alpha makes a beeline for her and Alice Williams rises. She smooths down the creases in her skirt then puts on her most charming smile, removing any trace of the mad fourteen-year-old from four years ago.

It doesn’t make sense. He isn’t mistaken; he knows it’s her, but this _shouldn’t_ have happened. He wants to get up and follow them, but he keeps still and does his best to look composed. She has a job and he has a job, and there’s also the niggling feeling that Alice’s presence wasn’t a mere coincidence.

He looks over his shoulder and freezes when he sees him.

He’s standing by the bar, dressed in a vanilla-coloured suit, and when Mycroft’s eyes meet his, he raises his glass in greeting.

* * *

You don’t talk to strangers. Everyone who’s had a childhood knows that. You don’t talk to strangers and you don’t ask them to accompany you for coffee the moment you’ve finished exchanging introductory ‘hello’s’, not even if you’re thinking about getting off with that person as it usually takes more bumbling and lame jokes before you get the courage to ask. But Mycroft’s a Holmes and Holmeses screw up every social norm when they have to, or in Sherlock’s case, when they really don’t give a fuck.

“I shouldn’t have come, really. I have three girls and a boy on duty and only the gods know what might happen to them. Well, them and my assistant.” He rests his chin on one hand and looks at the menu with the lazy manner of someone who doesn’t care about what he’ll order. His hair falls over his forehead. It’s been dyed black, obvious from the fake sheen of it. His eyes, behind the thick-framed glasses are dark are as his hair. They’re blue, Mycroft knows, the same pale blue as their father’s. With his colouring different, he doesn’t look much like them, but Mycroft’s instincts are pointing out that this man is his flesh and blood.

_Brother. Pack. Ally._

_Illusions._

“I’m paying.”

“Oh no, I can—”

“I insist.”

“Ah, well. But I’m buying next time.”

Sherrinford raises his hand to get the attention of the waiter, a local, who immediately rushes towards them with a slightly fearful look on his face. He smiles at the boy reassuringly then states their orders in slightly shaky Latvian. “Eh, I’m not that good with languages,” he says in an apologetic tone when he turns back to Mycroft. 

“How’s business?” Mycroft asks sarcastically. 

“ _Booming._ And I see you’re having fun with your job.”

The boy comes back and grins at them. Nobody likes a tourist but a tourist who can speak your language and pay for your service is acceptable. He chatters as he hands them their orders then stops, startled, when Sherrinford touches his hand. The boy—really, he’s only eighteen at most—starts to ask a question when Sherrinford whispers something in his ear. Mycroft reads his lips then rolls his eyes, and the boy stumbles back, face red as he moves to another table. Sherrinford watches him hungrily and Mycroft knows, without a doubt, that the boy’s been added to his collection.

“Insatiable.”

“I’m a workaholic.” A shrug. “I don’t fuck them, you know. I wouldn’t make money if I did.”

“You don’t ask for money.”

A smile. “Neither do you.”

Mycroft can’t help the warmth that seeps through his chest. It’s that excited feeling you only get when you meet someone with the same interests as you. He fights it, tells himself not to be ridiculous. He doesn’t know Sherrinford. He can’t read anything important in him, nothing he can use to turn against him. Mycroft doubts that there’s anything. You can’t blackmail someone who isn’t ashamed about what he does. 

“You’re a pimp and a drug lord,” Mycroft says flatly. The second is a stretch but they’re always connected in some way, and Sherrinford looks the part. “You don’t need money.”

“I prefer to think of myself as the HR of drug cartels,” Sherrinford corrects. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose in a contemplative manner. “I don’t play the game, Mycroft. Much too messy for my taste. Besides, anonymity it’s—”

“Thrilling.”

“Exactly.”

The coffee’s losing its warmth. Mycroft picks up a spoon and stirs some sugar in it, noting, with a bit of disgust and bafflement, how Sherrinford pours five tablespoons of it in his own. A former addict? What is it about addicts again? That they lose a great portion of their sense of taste and smell? 

“Meth,” Sherrinford tells him, unabashed. “The advantage of crystal meth to junkies is that it has less physical side effects, less chance of going into cardiac arrest, and it moves straight to your brain. That was a long time ago, though. You don’t hire someone who’ll steal from your stores.”

Mycroft looks down at his cup. “How’s Father?” 

“Brunei. Handling business. The other business.” He laughs at the quizzical look on Mycroft’s face. “Oh come on, Mycroft. I’m the oldest and I may be bastard but I did inherit something.

“You know what we all have in common? It isn’t intelligence. It’s desire for power. Our sire never has to work a single day but he likes to keep busy? Business trips my ass, he was making transactions with other cartels! Our dad’s been financing cartels since you were three, all because he’s never bored when he does. And because people respect him for that, people who matter know him for that. Not like your people who think of him as the crazy head Alpha.”

Beneath the table, Mycroft clenches his fists. He wants to hurt him, wants to slam his fist in that sneering face. He doesn’t, he _shouldn’t_. That’s exactly what Sherrinford wants, and Mycroft isn’t stupid enough to give in to it. Instead he smiles back at him, his smile becoming more genuine when a look of disappointment crosses Sherrinford’s face.

“So you employed the Bryant sisters. How nice of you to give them such a…profiting occupation.”

“I may sell them but I take care of my charges,” Sherrinford argues. This time, there’s a hint of anger in his voice, an almost defensive tone, and Mycroft blinks, wondering if he can have one up on Sherrinford. “I took care of that problem for you. How’s your mate? What’s his name again?”

“Greg,” Mycroft answers, and damn it, he fails to conceal the protective don’t-you-dare-lay-a-hand-on-him-don’t-you-dare growl. If Sherrinford notices, he doesn’t bring it up. He sips his coffee then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Like a child, Mycroft thinks. Like Sherlock, even.

“Look,” Sherrinford says. “I’m not here to piss you off.”

“Really? You’re very good at multitasking.”

“I am, aren’t I? Anyway, I’m a regular in that hotel—you have no idea how in demand my charges are. We’ll cross paths. We’ll almost always cross paths because while you’re digging around for shit, I’ll be around making sure those politicians don’t get blueballed while running their governments. And that’s good, that’s fine, really, because I don’t care what you do. Unless of course, you’re trying to blackmail someone using one of my charges. Anonymity is something we both love, Mycroft, and I don’t want my name dragged in anything like that.”

Mycroft holds his gaze, even as fear and apprehension begins to prickle up his spine. “And what will happen if I do?” he asks. 

“Bad things,” Sherrinford says simply. “How do you break a man, Mycroft? You don’t kill him; that’s boring.”

“You kill what he loves,” Mycroft answers automatically.

“Precisely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In TNK Mycroft mentions meeting Sherrinford in the airport and having a brief conversation with him. Yeah, he lied. 
> 
> Next chapter skips to several years later, meaning the twins are grown up, Sherlock and John are together (but John's still in the army), Greg's already DS, and Mycroft's already the British Government. And oh my god, only two chapters left after this plus the epilogue like shit, man, it's nearly finished oh my god.


	16. The Kids are Alright

The thing about having children is no matter how much you do to keep them from harm, they’ll always find a way to hurt themselves, either physically or emotionally. The cause is often curiosity, and when your child is remarkably intelligent and inventive, the only thing you can do is hone your reflexes and try and catch them before they bite off more than they can chew.

 

He’s had a lot of training from looking after his younger and incredibly, worryingly destructive brother, so it comes as no surprise to him that his body reacts faster than his mind in this moment. His arm shoots out to grab a handful of Cedric’s shirt. Inertia kicks in and Cedric makes an undignified squawk when he’s yanked backwards, his glasses sliding off his face to fall on the floor. Meanwhile, his skateboard crashes against the wall, the impact big enough to make the mirror over the fireplace shake in warning. A cloud of smoke spurts out from the rockets secured to the back wheels, and Cedric flinches when the blue-white spark of a cut wire slices through the grey.

 

“I told you it wouldn’t work!” Bea shouts as she climbs down the stairs with her own board tucked under one arm. “I told you that the N600 battery pack won’t be able to handle it but—”

 

She stops, eyes widening upon seeing Mycroft standing there with her brother still pressed against his side. Her hair, tied in a single messy braid down her back, is singed and there’s a black smear of grease on her cheek. Mycroft releases Cedric. He’s in a similar state, his face still paper-white with shock so that his freckles stand out obscenely. Mycroft takes his glasses then hands them to him, and Cedric reaches for them in way that makes sure their fingers don’t accidentally brush against each other. As if physical contact will escalate Mycroft’s fury.

 

It’s 9:30 pm and Mycroft has set his foot in his own country for less than two hours. Is it too much to ask, he thinks with a bit of irritation, to come home without this kind of display?

 

“That,” he says, gesturing to the broken remains of Cedric’s skateboard, “isn’t schoolwork.”

 

A beat. And then, simultaneously, they cry, “Please don’t tell Dad.”

 

“Don’t tell me what?”

 

Greg’s eyes jump from the twins to Mycroft. He gives him a small, welcoming smile before his attention drifts to the still-smoking board, his expression morphing into one of shock. Shock and then anger.

 

“How many times do I have to tell you two that you can’t experiment outside your room?” he shouts.

 

Greg isn’t overreacting. Had Mycroft not caught him, Cedric would have fractured his collarbone with the impact. But it’s more heated than usual and even Bea, who can handle Greg’s anger better than her brother, visibly tenses. Forty-two hours? Mycroft looks at his mate closely. No, make that fifty-one since he last slept.

 

The twins look at each other, a whole conversation unfolding in a shift of an eyebrow or even something as quick as a blink. Cedric turns to face Greg, mouth working soundlessly for a second before he manages to gather enough courage (or cowardice) to yell, “It was Bea’s idea, I swear!”

 

She glares at him and Mycroft has to step in between them to stop her from hitting her brother. “It was but you had to make it more complicated even though I told you that you can’t use that battery pack!”

 

“You said it would work!”

 

“Enough!” Greg snaps. It’s the same voice he uses to reprimand his team and the children react to it in a soldier-like manner. “You two go to your room and don’t come out until I tell you to.”

 

“But—”

 

“Oh god— _Cedric_!”

 

He flushes with embarrassed anger and Mycroft knows, without a doubt, that he’ll cry once he’s in the safety of his room. Mycroft wants to hold him and reassure him. He wants to yell at him and scold him and, in a horrible flash of a darker thought, he wants to _hit_ him. He does nothing.

 

There’s a reason why Greg is the disciplinarian here. And it isn’t because Mycroft can’t bring himself to discipline his children.

 

If he does, he won’t be able to stop.

 

“Well, I handled that quite well,” Greg mutters, voice dripping with sarcasm. He tosses his coat to the back of his chair then sinks into it. His whole body looks like it wants to melt into the chair, but his mind still hasn’t entirely left his office in Scotland Yard. His eyes keep jumping from one thing to the other. “How was Belarus?”

 

“Cold,” Mycroft replies. Tense, he thinks, remembering the board meeting and goddamn Sherrinford. He sits down next to Greg who instinctively leans against him. Mycroft allows his baser instincts to take over for a moment. He runs his nose and mouth against the side of Greg’s throat, taking in the smell of cheap coffee and cigarettes (not his) underlying Greg’s natural scent. “You know I can’t,” he murmurs against Greg’s clavicle. “The last time—”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Greg says dismissively because no one needs to think about _that_ now.

 

“I’ll apologize later,” he continues. He rubs a hand over his face. His wedding ring is notably dirty and somewhere in his mind, Mycroft pulls out one of Sherlock’s inane studies. A dirty ring equates to an unhappy marriage? In this case, Mycroft’s positive that they’re an exception.

 

“It’s just…this fucking _case_ ,” Greg groans, shouting the last word.

 

“Do you require Sherlock for this?”

 

It isn’t meant to be derogative but Greg still scowls. Still, he merely shakes his head. “I can do this one on my own,” he mutters a little self-consciously. Mycroft pays it no mind. They didn’t help Greg with his career, and while Sherlock may help on cases, Greg didn’t earn his promotion to a Detective Inspector because of him.

 

“It isn’t wise, either,” Mycroft says as he moves to the kitchen. Greg follows him, shuffling drowsily. “Coffee?” he asks hopefully but Mycroft shakes his head at him and tells him he needs sleep, not another caffeine fix.

 

“Why’s it a bad idea?” Greg asks.

 

“Because John is arriving tomorrow and while my brother might be willing to put off their…reunion in favour of a case, John won’t be pleased.”

 

“Oh good, John’s coming home.” Greg yawns. “That will keep Sherlock entertained.”

 

“Indeed.” Mycroft sips his tea then notes, with a bit of fondness and a bit of exasperation, that someone has popped open the outlet near the threshold. “I may have made a mistake in sending them to that school.”

 

Greg looks at his line of sight and groans. He pillows his head in his arms so his reply comes out a bit muffled. “It’s okay,” he says. “At least we have two repairmen available twenty-four-seven.”

 

The twins go to Hinterland’s School of Science and Technology which is the kind of school where there isn’t a numerical grading system and where the activity of the day is studying nomenclature or taking apart an iPod and making a version that would put the mass-produced Apple products to shame. Their obsession with the workings of technology began as soon as they could talk in long sentences, and like little modern Nikola Teslas they’re always making something that can either be impressive or downright annoyingly destructive. It’s a parallel of Sherlock’s constant need to have something to experiment on. Mycroft doesn’t encourage it, nor is he not in favour of their hobbies. As long as they’re entertained, he’s fine by it, but really, the least they can do is try not to destroy the house.

 

Sometimes he thinks Sherlock goads them into doing it. But it’s an irrational thought. His brother doesn’t get along with his children. Mostly he ignores them until something in the flat breaks down, and Sherlock, who’s never one to do repairs, texts Greg to let him borrow one of the children. Cedric’s frightened of him and Bea finds Sherlock snarky so their interaction is minimal.

 

“Go to sleep,” Mycroft tells him. Greg grumbles but complies.

 

He should sleep as well. He’s been awake longer than Greg, seventy-two hours to be exact, but his mind won’t let him. It’s like a record on loop, playing the events of the meeting over and over again. Sherrinford both was and wasn’t the problem. There were no insults, no plans to rile him up or deceive him and Mycroft finds himself troubled by it. “One of my girls went rogue,” was all Sherrinford said and before Mycroft could even think of asking, he’d shut him out, temporarily severing his more-than-just-acquaintances relationship with Mycroft.

 

He doesn’t know what to think of it.

 

Sherrinford doesn’t scare him. He did, when they were younger, but Mycroft’s influential now and if there’s one thing he’s sure about Sherrinford is that he’s more playful than harmful. And as annoying as he is, he serves as a shield for Sherlock, making sure to clean up the mess Mycroft’s can’t so as to avoid territorial disputes. Sherrinford loves Sherlock, loves him like a child would love a favourite toy.

 

His thoughts are broken when he hears someone approaching. Lighter steps than anyone else’s in this house. Bea, he confirms before he turns to her. “How’s Cedric?”

 

“Crying,” she admits. She doesn’t wait for permission. Mycroft lets her curl into his side, her head propped on his shoulder. Her hair’s still wet from the shower, creating a dark patch on Mycroft’s suit. “Did you have fun travelling?” she asks, and Mycroft has to bite back a laugh.

 

“It was satisfactory,” he says, neither lying nor telling the truth. He glances at her, takes note of the messily applied nail polish on her fingernails which is now beginning to flake. She picks at a nail, removing a large portion of it. She doesn’t look much like, either of them, Mycroft thinks. More like Greg’s mother with Mycroft’s colouring and Greg’s eyes, but somehow, she still manages to look like the twin of Cedric, Mycroft’s carbon copy. It’s in their facial expressions, their mannerisms. They spend so much time together it’s a wonder how they’ll exist in a world without the other.

 

“Can you spend some time with him?” she asks. “Just him alone.”

 

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

The flat is a mess. John drops his bags in the threshold and takes note of the changes. There’s a large chemical burn on the wallpaper that Mrs Hudson no doubt berated Sherlock for, and the glass coffee table has been replaced by a wooden one. The skull greets him first, smiling grimly on its post on the mantelpiece. There’s something new there, too. A Transformers robot? It must be one of the twins’, one of those toys they keep remaking from scrap pieces of metal.

 

“Did you get the milk?”

 

Sherlock’s sprawled on the sofa, limbs stretched away from his body. His shirt’s ridden up to expose the pale line of his stomach and John finds himself looking at it with something that surprisingly isn’t lust or affection. “I just got back from Afghanistan,” John says. “I don’t really give a shit about milk.”

 

Sherlock grumbles at that but makes no other comment. He cracks one eye open and gives John that lazy come-and-get-it smile that never fails to draw John in. He shouldn’t. He’s tired and he can feel jetlag trying to settle in his bones but he hasn’t had a bed partner save for his hand in a year. And god, he missed Sherlock so much it almost felt more like a physical pain than an emotional one.

 

He kisses Sherlock’s stomach, dips his tongue in Sherlock’s navel which earns him laugh and a “John, stop fooling around and just get one with it”. Something about it makes him pause, makes him try to analyse what he’s feeling.

 

Oh, John thinks when Sherlock pulls him up and fits their mouths together. It isn’t lust, not just that. It’s an idea, and hopefully, a possibility.

 

* * *

 

“You know, when I was eleven, my hobbies included playing football with your godfather.”

 

“I play football,” Bea reminds him. She turns the skateboard over then reattaches the now modified wheel. At her elbow, wires spring out from the new battery pack that Mycroft handed to her, tongue-in-cheek. It looks complicated and normally, a parent would assist if Greg wasn’t sure he’d do more harm than good.

 

“It didn’t include turning your skateboard into Frankenstein,” Greg jokes and Bea rolls her eyes so hard that the whites show. She grins at him exasperatedly, that dad-is-making-lame-jokes smile.

 

“Frankenstein’s the scientist.”

 

“Was never a fan of classic literature either,” Greg replies wryly.

 

She makes a face at him then returns to her work, making sure to slide the sleeves of her shirt up her elbows. It’s Cedric’s shirt, the blue Save the Whales one Mrs Hudson gave to him last year. She steals their clothes sometimes, and once, even Mycroft’s necktie which she’d worn in place of her school-issued one. The rest of her clothes are in that garish shade of pink that just screams ‘feminine’. Pink skirt, pink socks, pink shoes. “Why?” she asked Dimmock with that malicious grin Greg just knows she’d picked up from Sherlock. “Does it _bother_ you?”

 

It’s Alanis’ fault, really. “Come on, Greg, you have a daughter and there are three guys in your house. You have to teach her being girly isn’t a weakness,” she said, and Greg couldn’t say no to her because he’s all about equality, right?

 

And the only thing he could say back to her at that time was, “Will you stop dating Luke?” Because it’s weird that his cousins are dating each other (and yeah, they aren’t related by blood and Luke’s a distant relative, really) but those two can spawn the bloody antichrist.

 

And Bea, well, Bea has Mycroft’s ‘I’m going to handle everything because I’m the older sibling’ complex so it comes as no surprise that she takes to Alanis’ teachings easily. “I don’t stick to labels,” she likes to say and Greg believes her because he’s never seen a little girl defeat her male friends in football while wearing a skirt and tights.

 

He’s raising her right, he knows that, because the only thing she’s ever complained about on a daily basis is the constant battle between toilet seat up and toilet seat down.

 

A spark from the battery pack Bea is attaching makes Greg jump, sending a few files to slide off the desk. Sherlock walks in just as Greg’s picking them up, John following behind. “Hey, Uncle,” Bea greets in a disinterested tone. “John,” she says, offering John a warm smile.

 

“Bring you child to work day?” Sherlock asks sarcastically.

 

“Bea!” Greg hisses, scandalized when she raises her middle finger at him. John laughs. “Oi, don’t encourage her.”

 

Sherlock ignores it then takes a seat on the bench by the door, frowning when John doesn’t immediately sit down beside him. Greg does his best not roll his eyes at his brother-in-law before he’s enveloped in John’s bruising hug.

 

“I got back three days ago,” John tells him. He glances at Bea then clears his throat meaningfully. “Uh, you know, been a bit busy.”

 

“I’m sure I know what you mean by busy.”

 

“So do I,” Bea says. She groans when Greg glares at her. “I’m _eleven_ not five. I know what you’re talking about.”

 

“Yeah…okay.” The last time John was here was over a year ago. He looks fitter, tanner, and with a new small cut on shelf of his jaw that he claims is nothing, that he just happened to be standing there when the window of the building broke. Greg knows when he got it. It was that Langley case, when Sherlock had paused in the middle of his speech, then proceeded to scratch at his jaw once Langley was apprehended. “Sherlock wants a case.”

 

“Mycroft called you, didn’t he?” Greg mutters darkly. He’ll have to talk to Mycroft about this but…okay, he gives up. He _does_ need Sherlock’s help for this one and having his pride hurt in favour of keeping a serial killer out the streets sounds fair.

 

He gives them the details, not even bothering to censor his words because his children hang out at Scotland Yard all the time and manage to get their hands on forensic reports no matter how many times Greg tries to keep them away from them. Bea keeps working but Greg can see that she’s listening intently. “You can’t tell your brother that you were here to hear all this,” he tells her once he’s done. “He’ll get jealous.”

 

“We’ll be off, then,” John says. He ruffles Bea’s hair, causing her to laugh and retaliate by playfully poking him with a screwdriver. John doges the attack easily then looks back at Greg. “Let’s get a pint sometime.”

 

“Sure. Luke’s coming over soon. Do you mind if he comes?”

 

John shakes his head. He’s neutral towards Luke and is blessedly patient when around him. “Sure. But—”

 

“John,” Sherlock snaps impatiently. John offers him an apologetic look before he follows after Sherlock. Greg catches sight of the slightly possessive spread of his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back through the window. Unusual for John which can only mean one thing. By the time Sherlock’s finished solving this one, Greg won’t be able to get their statements. He’ll be in heat by that time.

 

Bastard probably planned this.

 

“Can Ced and I go to the estate next week?” Bea asks. The countryside is an equivalent to heaven to those two because a) Greg’s parents make the best food b) Mycroft’s mother lets them explore the manor c) horses and d) there’s a lot of room to skate in.

 

“You’re going to use your skateboards, aren’t you?” Greg asks even though he already knows the answer.

 

Bea gives him an innocent smile which makes Greg groan inwardly. He told Mycroft not to buy Cedric a new one so soon but the twins know how to manipulate Mycroft into giving them what they want. He expected it, anyway. Mycroft loves kids. Brainy, inquisitive kids with a tendency to blow things up every five minutes or so. He spoiled Sherlock rotten when they were growing up and Greg’s certain his children would be too if not for him.

 

“Fine,” he says and Bea throws her arms up and whoops in delight.

 

* * *

 

“It’s okay if you don’t want to. It’s just a thought.”

 

“John, case.”

 

“Right, sorry.”

 

“…however, I don’t disapprove of the idea. Just, not now. Soon perhaps.”

 

“I’d have to leave the army.”

 

Sherlock looks at him. Then smiles.

 

* * *

 

Bringing an Alpha with a mild form of ADHD and armed with the impatience of anyone under the age of sixteen to the Diogenes Club is, Mycroft realizes too late, a bad idea. But Cedric is mercifully quiet today, although he does disregard the rule of being mindful of the solitary state of others. Silently, he taps the shoulder of a Mr. Erwin Dare, a wiry businessman who Mycroft almost considers a friend. Erwin smiles back at him then raises a questioning eyebrow at Mycroft before returning to his book. Mycroft sends his son a warning glare and thankfully, Cedric gets it. He grabs a book from one of the shelves then takes a seat opposite Mycroft and doesn’t move for another two hours.

 

“Do marine biologists make a lot of money?” Cedric asks once they’re in the Stranger’s Room, the only part inside the club where talking is allowed. He’s lounging in the chair by the window where the sunlight streams in, highlighting his hair so that it looks like the top of his head is on fire. The light hits his glasses in a way that Mycroft can’t read his eyes but he can see the tense line of his body, his spine taut as he waits for Mycroft’s answer.

 

“That depends,” Mycroft tells him carefully. “You were reading about them a while ago. Your great grandfather is a marine biologist, I’m certain he can tell you more about the topic than that outdated book. Do you wish to become one?”

 

“I don’t know. I mean, I did, but now…not sure.”

 

The twins have been to Sidney twice, once three months after they were born, and the second, two years ago. Abernathy, Greg’s grandfather, is like a fairy tale come true to the both of them. “He has a pet SHARK,” Bea cried once, as if Mycroft can’t buy out a whole zoo and hand it to her. And a pet piranha, Sherlock had replied instantly with a wry smile. The twins also managed to break a fish tank containing a school of small piranhas and Bea has the scar to prove it, a small nick on the skin of her ankle that Cedric claims looks like a sickle.

 

“It makes you look like a badass,” Luke assured her and Bea grinned and happily bumped fists with him, because apparently, Luke is cool—he has tattoos and his ears are pierced and he interviews rock stars for a living!

 

“I want to be an engineer,” Cedric blurts out. His bravado fades as soon as it’s appeared. “I mean,” he says hesitantly, “I mean if that’s okay with you.”

 

And here we go back to Last Time.

 

Shortly before their eleventh birthday, Erwin Dare walked up to him and asked if Mycroft was interested in arranging a pre-bond for Cedric and his eight-year-old Omega daughter, Amelia. Greg isn’t in favour of arranging a pre-bond for Cedric in spite of having gotten one as well and is the only reason why Mycroft didn’t arrange one for Cedric the moment he turned seven. But it would have been a perfect match. In business, and Cedric, poor sweet Cedric, managed to find out before Mycroft could announce it.

 

“I don’t want to!”

 

Mycroft’s response was biting.

 

“Cedric,” he said, “you’re an Alpha, you’re to have a pre-bond, you have _responsibilities_. You can’t afford to constantly doubt yourself because your decisions will sorely affect you in the future, and a pre-bond is perfect for you.” And here his father’s voice entered his mind, deleting his brain-to-mouth filter in the blink of an eye. “For what other purpose did I raise you for?”

 

“You absolute bastard,” Greg yelled when Cedric ran off. “Why did you say that to him? What is _wrong_ with you?”

 

The past. If you’re raising a child, you pick up pointers from your childhood, and some of the things Mycroft learned while he was growing up is too much to handle, even for an adult. And Cedric is a child. Remove his intelligence and he’s just like any other child out there, emotionally vulnerable, unlike his sister who developed Mycroft’s coping system. _Caring isn’t an advantage_. Cedric can’t make himself believe that, even if you force him to.

 

And Cedric’s an Alpha and Mycroft’s only son. There’s more pressure on him than there is for his sister. He’s aware of it as well. He’ll look at Mycroft when he’s done something unexpected, his face asking, “Did I do something wrong? Are you going to get mad again? Please don’t.”

 

So Mycroft’s careful with him, with both of them. He isn’t his father. He doesn’t want to be his father when it comes to raising his children. He lets them run wild, lets them make their own decisions, and it’s alright, they aren’t spoiled because, as Greg puts it, “I’m not going to let any of my kids become fucking elitists.”

 

But Cedric’s never managed to delete the wariness he acquires when in close proximity to Mycroft. It’s still there, and it will always be there, no matter how many times Mycroft apologizes because there _is_ a bit of truth in that sentence.

 

Awful as it is, the main reason why people reproduce is so their children will do what they failed to do. And Mycroft loves them, of course he does, but there’s still a twinge of disappointment. It’s obvious at first glance that neither of them will grow up to follow in either his or Greg’s footsteps.

 

“Of course you can,” Mycroft assures him, and Cedric smiles tentatively.

 

Mycroft almost goes back to his book, but stops when he sees Cedric still watching him. “You have another question,” he says and Cedric nods then looks at his lap, making his hair fall on his face. It’s getting too long and Mycroft’s a little bit annoyed at how Cedric keeps using it as a shield. “Leave him alone. I think it looks awesome. Besides, he listens to The Clash, My, that’s fucking amazing,” Greg said and well, that was the end of the topic for him, really.

 

Cedric fidgets. “How…how do I ask someone out?”

 

Mycroft blinks, caught off-guard. Well. He has no experience in this. Sherlock never asked about things like this. Then again, Sherlock doesn’t really ask him questions. “Cedric,” he says, “you’re eleven-years-old. Don’t you think you’re too young for that kind of business?”

 

“This girl in my class is really cool,” Cedric continues, ignoring him. He smiles, enough to reveal his chipped front tooth. Fell down the stairs in the estate, or rather, was pushed down the stairs by his cousins’ children, Mycroft can’t remember. They aren’t accident prone; they like to seek danger. Each scar is like a badge they’ll proudly show Mycroft and Greg. A skinned knee, a lost tooth, a cut from a rock. Much like Greg when he was younger.

 

“She builds model airplanes,” Cedric adds helpfully. He blows at a wisp of his hair then frowns when it falls over his eye. It’s making Mycroft want to schedule a meeting with his barber even more.

 

“And this is what attracted you to her?” he asks.

 

“Yes.” Cedric scratches the back of his neck then thinks better about it. “She’s pretty, I guess,” he adds in a tone that says all too well that he doesn’t really care about ‘pretty’. “Besides, Dad said you guys got together when you were thirteen. That’s pretty young.”

 

“Greg told you about that?”

 

“Yeah.” A pause. “He said you were pretty awful at it at first.”

 

Mycroft rolls his eyes at that. “Hilarious,” he mutters, earning a giggle from Cedric.

 

“I’ll be honest with you,” he says after the silence has gotten too long. “When you enter a relationship early on in your pre-bond it’s difficult to imagine yourself with someone else. Greg and I are not the ideal people to be asked that kind of question and neither is your uncle. You can ask John.”

 

“Can I ask Luke?”

 

Mycroft stalls for effect then shakes his head. “Absolutely not,” he says dismissively.

 

* * *

 

“Have you ever considered having another kid?”

 

Greg chokes on his drink while Luke laughs loud enough to attract attention. Fortunately, it’s the middle of the afternoon and the pub’s only occupants aside from them and the employees are a young couple snogging in the background and the porky man who’d come up to Luke and asked him if he was the same bloke he saw on late-night television (“Can I have your autograph?” “Yeah, sure, but I don’t really have any paper—oh, your stomach? Uh, okay.” “It’s for my daughter.” “Wow, I don’t see how that can work—ow, Greg! I mean, that’s nice and thank you.”)

 

“Ugh, no,” Greg says once he’s recovered. “I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he continues when he sees John’s look of alarm. “I love the twins and everything but I’m going to be raising two teenagers at the same time and with me and My having jobs with irregular schedules, it’s just not ideal. Ask Luke if he’s considering.”

 

“What?” Luke whinges. “I don’t even have a kid! Ask Chuck. He has four and he’s only been married for six years. Chuck’s _always_ considering.”

 

Luke, Yuna, and Emily are the only ones in Greg’s circle of friends who have yet to settle down. The girls started a small advertising agency. Chuck married Anika, has four daughters, and now lives in Merton, acting like a rather smarmy bastard so that Greg can’t help but feel a pang of irritation whenever he talks to him. Luke, on the other hand, chose to live up to his rude Jay Leno-for-the misguided-youth TV persona, and spends most of his time in Sidney, influencing the kind of teenagers Greg brings in to the police station.

 

“Where’s this coming from anyway?” Luke pokes a chip in a blot of ketchup and takes a bite. He narrows his eyes at John who smiles sheepishly. He blinks then nearly topples backwards in surprise. “Oh my god, you got Sherlock pregnant!” he shouts.

 

“What the—! God, John, are you serious?” Greg asks.

 

“What? No! I mean, not yet—I…I’m planning to leave the army and maybe…maybe do that,” John says, then winces when he replays what he said. “I mean, we might start a family. I’m thirty and I’ve been in the army for several years now. I _like_ it there but…” He flushes then clears his throat. “I like being with Sherlock more.”

 

“That’s great, John.” Greg says, and he means it. His own kids weren’t planned but they turned out alright, didn’t they? Even despite the fact that they’re always doing their own things. He doesn’t doubt John, but he is a bit wary about Sherlock who’s never expressed any interest in children. Then again, he’ll have a child with John and anything of John’s is something Sherlock either loves or tolerates (the jumpers, Sherlock only tolerates those because yeah, Greg might not have a good eye for fashion but some of them are just hideous).

 

To be honest, Greg knows John’s been planning this a long time. It’s obvious that he wants to spend a lifetime keeping Sherlock safe and happy then later have mini army doctors/consulting detectives with him to terrorize the streets of London.

 

And then John gets shot and that plan goes down the drain in the speed of a bullet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter before the epilogue focuses more on Sherlock and John.


	17. Woe of the Snipe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revisiting an oc in TNK. Ewan Reed from Chapter 20 of that story.

Wednesday morning and John finds himself sewing up the corpse of a twenty-something war photography intern. There’s a bright flash and John looks over his shoulder to find Montez getting ready to take another picture. “Bit not good what you’re doing,” he warns as finishes the last few stitches. It’s a lot less neat than his usual ones, but John figures the guy won’t mind. He’s already dead, after all, and the entry wound that tore through his right eye is a much worse sight than the shot to his stomach.

 

“He’s dead,” Montez says matter-of-factly. He looks at the body with something akin to interest, an expression John knows all too well. Quickly, John covers the body with a sheet before Montez can take another picture. People die all the time when you’re in the army, that’s a given. That doesn’t mean you can just take photographs of every dead body you come across. Then again, it’s technically Montez’s job. John just thought he’d at least feel a little mournful. The intern was his, after all.

 

War photographers make John queasy. They don’t know how to fight, don’t know how to do anything but wield a camera, and whenever one of them gets shot down by a stray bullet it always makes John incredibly guilty. Montez doesn’t need protection, though. He’s forty-six-year-old Alpha, Brazilian, and has been taking pictures in countries plagued with war for nearly a decade. Before, he claimed to be a food photographer but John doesn’t believe half of what comes out of Montez’s mouth. He isn’t bonded and thinks bonding is a hindrance which is why John doesn’t talk about Sherlock to him. John’s never met anyone as desensitized to war as Montez. Well, except for his superiors, but they don’t really count since it comes with the job.

 

He’s also more than a bit of a dick.

 

John likes him.

 

Bill says that he shouldn’t be surprised that he gets along with Montez because, according to him, John has a soft spot arrogant but talented people. John protested and Bill countered with, “But Sherlock.”

 

Bill does sort of have a point.

 

The blood on his gloves dried black and tacky. John pulls them off and tosses them in a small bin before following Montez out the tent. They’ll contact the boy’s family, commemorate him for his bravery. John imagines a girlfriend or a boyfriend waiting at the airport, attempting to disguise their worry with frustration. John knows all the procedures by heart already. All he really had to do was make the body as presentable as he can. That’s what happens when you can’t save them. Always, it’s never enough.

 

“Ricky,” Montez says, dropping the name in John’s hand. He’s already forgetting it because who has time to remember all the names of the deceased when Montez adds, “He was a good friend of Victor. I’ll have to contact the boy, tell him what happened.”

 

It leaves a sour taste in John’s mouth even though logically, it shouldn’t. Victor Trevor is—or was—Sherlock’s friend, not his, and besides, the whole time Victor was with them, he was shamelessly ogling Sherlock. At a respectful distance and they weren’t together then, but still, the recognition jumps at him.

 

Sherlock told him that Victor became a travel photographer. Montez told him the extension of that story, of how he managed to scout Victor while doing a shoot in New York. He’s in Pakistan or somewhere like that, Montez isn’t sure. They move a lot, take the most gruesome pictures they can find, then fly to the adventure-slash-travel company nearest to them.

 

Montez leaves him for the company of the younger soldiers and John heads back to the barracks. There are only three people inside, including John, one of which is Bill. He raises a hand in greeting but doesn’t tear his eyes away from the screen of his laptop. He met a girl last year, a tiny Japanese woman John met briefly while following Sherlock to Scotland Yard and who John thinks is nice in that vague ‘she looks nice so she must be’ way. John’s given up teasing Bill on having a long term relationship for once so he settles in his own bunk and opens his own laptop. It’s five o’clock in London, an unusual time for Sherlock to be using his laptop. But it turns out to be John’s lucky day.

 

The image is grainy as always but John can make out that Sherlock’s only wearing a sheet. No cases, then, John thinks. He grins, opens his mouth to make a somewhat perverted remark, when Sherlock interrupts and says, “Don’t. You’ll scar an eleven-year-old for life.”

 

“The twins are there?”

 

“The overly nice one, yes. And another unwanted, much heavier presence.” He moves his laptop. The image shakes, blurring into greys and whites before it settles and John sees Mycroft sitting in his chair with Cedric perched on the arm, playing a PSP. Mycroft greets him cordially enough but Cedric, far too absorbed with the game he’s playing, doesn’t even bother to look up.

 

“Mycroft’s just leaving,” Sherlock mutters once the camera’s back to him. He glares in the direction John assumes is where Mycroft is. “And he’s taking the brat with him.”

 

“Just think about it, Sherlock,” comes Mycroft’s voice. There’s a shuffling noise, a goodbye from Cedric, and finally, the sound of the front door closing behind them. Sherlock unwraps the sheet from himself slightly, lets it fall in a more natural way that has John staring. But it seems that Sherlock isn’t in the mood to play games with him. And neither is John. It’s too late for that and besides, he can’t get the memory of that dead body out of his mind.

 

“Mycroft wants me to take a case for him.”

 

“Did you take it?”

 

“Of course not,” Sherlock snorts, even managing to sound deeply offended.

 

“But you don’t have anything to solve,” John counters. He winces, imaging the complaints Mrs Hudson will bombard him once he returns. It’s a good thing for Sherlock that their landlady has the patience of a saint, and likes to turn a blind eye to Sherlock’s destructive streak every now and then. “You’re probably climbing up the walls already.”

 

“Well, I wouldn’t be if you’d stayed,” Sherlock snaps, and John actually flinches. He’s in the danger zone now and he can’t backpedal anymore. He knows Sherlock’s still angry—it’s incredibly hard to miss. He’d begged him not to go back. Well, not exactly beg because Sherlock doesn’t do that. But he’d clung hard to John, had told him that yes, anything he wanted. A baby or even two if he just didn’t go back. But it felt abrupt to not go on another tour. They all talked about it—how John and the rest of his mates would leave when they reached their mid-thirties. These guys are his friends. It’s rude to leave without a proper goodbye.

 

“People in the army die every day. Not all of them get a chance to say goodbye,” Sherlock had growled, then blanched as soon as the words left his mouth. John had wanted to take him in his arms and assure him—without truly promising anything—that he won’t do that, can’t bring himself to do that. But you can’t promise that you’re not going to die when you’re in the military. There’s always a potential. But they were at a crime scene and Sherlock couldn’t afford to risk showing the police force that he needed John, not when Scotland Yard still reeks of sexism.

 

He wants a kid, wants to be the father of _Sherlock’s_ kid. But military duties aside, having one before his tour was illogical. Sherlock’s a bit malnourished and has an unhealthy addiction to nicotine and caffeine. To conceive a child then, was just trouble and besides, John wants to be there when his kid is born, not off in Afghanistan trying to stop his comrades from bleeding to death. Mycroft doesn’t say it but John knows that he regrets not having gotten there in time when the twins were born. One tour, only this one, and after this, he’s done with military life forever.

 

John lets Sherlock do most of the talking. He’s conducting another milk-based experiment, something to do with bacteria cultures and John just nods and offers the occasional question. “I got some fingers from Molly,” Sherlock adds, sounding like a child showing off a favourite toy. It makes John smile—and worried about the usability of the refrigerator.

 

“Just five more months and I’ll have my leave, alright?” John tells him. Sherlock mutters something that sounds like ‘too long’. John sighs. Maybe this was a stupid idea. He wants to stay in the flat, curl his hands around Sherlock’s wrist and rub his thumbs over the delicate bones of his hands until Sherlock gets impatient and leans in to kiss him. He wants the sun burning on his back and the feeling of sand between his fingers and that sharp rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He can’t have both.

 

“I love you.” He says it quietly. He isn’t ashamed to admit it, doesn’t care that Bill hears him say it. But it’s just for Sherlock’s ears.

 

Sherlock looks torn between ignoring the words and saying them back. John doesn’t mind. He knows Sherlock hates saying it. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it. Instead, he chooses to smile at John. “Obviously,” he says.

 

* * *

 

The air is choked with the smell of a fire long gone out. “Bill,” John snaps, looking over his shoulder to where Bill is standing far too close with a cigarette in hand. The wind’s blowing west, drawing the smoke towards John and his patient. The child coughs, a dry rattle in her lungs that tells John of infection.

 

It’s Sunday. Usually, Sundays are spent at base. Usually, John spends it on Skype with Sherlock. Usually.

 

It’s Sunday, it’s 19.2 °C outside, meaning that the inside of the burned building is about two degrees warmer, and six of their soldiers are missing, including Montez and one of his colleagues.

 

Bill doesn’t argue. He’s nervous, jumping at the smallest noises, and someone would call him on it if they weren’t all scared as hell. They sent the first team out to look for the others and John and the other medics are trying to hide their anxiety by treating the survivors of the fire.

 

Bill moves away and John thinks that he’ll finally have some peace when Ewan Reed walks over to them, tapping the butt of his rifle on the floor with every step. There’s a smug grin on his face that John thinks might be genuine. Of course, he remembers. Ewan doesn’t have family nor any close friends. He isn’t depressed or suicidal. He just doesn’t give a fuck.

 

“You alright, Cap?”

 

“Could do better,” he admits. He gives the child a thumbs up and the girl stands up, bare feet slapping on the soot-covered floor as she runs to her siblings. He takes Ewan’s offered hand and the two of them move to the window. Outside, the sun is blazing, the heat strong enough that their surroundings look warped. A bead of sweat slides down the bridge of his nose and falls on the window sill.

 

“I’m going to be honest with you,” Ewan says. “I think they’re dead.”

 

John nods. “I know.”

 

“We’re just fooling ourselves into thinking that they’re alive.”

 

John thinks of Montez, of all the pictures he’d taken of John, some of which he’d sent to Sherlock for a laugh. He doesn’t answer Ewan this time, just stands there and looks straight ahead. Outside, one of the soldiers is pacing outside the building, cigarette in his mouth. It’s Tommy. John recognizes him by his walk, still a cross between soldier and uni student.

 

“I’ve been in the army for several years. It’s weird but…”

 

“Yeah?”

 

_It’s the first time I’ve ever really thought of the possibility of dying._

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Outside, Tommy’s stopped pacing. He’s standing still, back facing John. For a second, he stays there, still as a statue.

 

And then a bang, the sound of gun firing in the distance, and Tommy falls back, blood spreading quickly beneath him.

 

* * *

 

“John!”

 

* * *

 

“John, don’t!”

 

Ewan grabs his arm, pulls him back, and John sees Bill go down. He wants to shout, wants to pull out of Ewan’s grasp and go to him, but he finds that he can’t move. He’s a soldier, he should do something! But Bill, god Bill, not his best mate.

 

“There’s too many of them,’ Ewan hisses in his ear.

 

It wakes him up. The weight of the gun at his hip reminds him that he has a job to do. You’re not supposed to fire at medics. But who has time for rules when people are dropping like flies?

 

“Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

 

“John! John, _please_.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ewan looks over his shoulder and grins, likes he’s about to tell a joke.

 

It’s how John will always remember him. Ewan Reed smiling triumphantly before his expression morphs into shock. The bullet hits his heart and before John can yell, it goes through Ewan’s body and sinks in his own shoulder.

 

They fall, the two of them. John with his back pressed against the floor, Ewan lying on top of his leg, dead eyes boring into John.

 

He screams.

 

* * *

 

“John?”

 

The dream shatters, and John surfaces with a gasp, heart pounding in the confines of his ribs. He’s shaking, his limbs gone stiff, and when he moves his leg, the pain flares over his body, making him grit his teeth. He scans the room, eyes searching wildly for an enemy but there’s none to be found. He’s in their room in 221B Baker Street. This is London, not Afghanistan, and he’s been home for three weeks already, still nursing his injured arm. Once the fear begins to abate, he becomes aware that he’s soaked with sweat, that he’s crying, and that Sherlock is nowhere to be found.

 

“Sherlock?” he calls. He’s here, somewhere. John can smell him, can feel him, and when John tugs on their link, his stomach sinks at the feeling of Sherlock’s fear mixing with his own emotions. Sherlock is afraid, John thinks as he fights to sit up. Sherlock is afraid and he shouldn’t be, and whatever or whoever managed to break through Sherlock’s stony façade will have to go through him.

 

There’s a rustle and Sherlock’s head appears over the mattress. He’s looking at John tentatively. “What are you doing on the floor?” John asks. He can’t help the bite of irritation in his voice. The digital alarm clock on the nightstand shows that it’s only three in the morning. Sherlock shouldn’t be awake, anyway. He solved a case in Camden that took four days and Sherlock had spent most of the time in the solving process doped on caffeine and adrenaline. “Did I wake you?” he adds, kinder this time.

 

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

 

“No—” Sherlock starts when John flicks on the lamp. John stares at his face which Sherlock is sheepishly trying to hide from him. “It’s nothing.”

 

His right eye’s turned purple-black and is starting to swell shut. John becomes aware of the throbbing pain in his knuckles. _You hurt him_. John closes his eyes. _Again._

“John.”

 

“Let’s get ice on that.”

 

It’s a short trip to the kitchen. It’s hell for John. Wordlessly, Sherlock hands him the aluminium cane he’s taken to using. Sherlock’s stubborn with it, keeps telling John that the pain is psychosomatic and that he won’t need it if John can just control his mind. The pain might be psychosomatic but it feels real and every time John moves it, the pain is mixed with the memory of Ewan’s dead weight on his leg, of Ewan staring at him blankly while the blood pooled out of him.

 

There’s a head in the freezer, but John can’t bring himself to get mad at Sherlock for it. “We don’t have ice, but this will do,” he says, handing Sherlock the bag of peas. He moves to his chair, leaning his weight on the cane. The bullet wound’s hurting, making his arm feel like a dead weight at his side, and John practically collapses in the chair with a small hiss. Sherlock follows, curling up in his own seat.

 

“I think,” John starts, ignoring Sherlock’s slightly panicked look, “that we should sleep separately from now on.”

 

“You didn’t mean it,” Sherlock argues. He sounds clingy. _Is_ clingy, John corrects himself. He spent five days in a coma and according to Greg, Sherlock had refused to leave his side. He stands too close to John, gets this panicked look that he can’t quite mask whenever John leaves the room for more than ten minutes. It’s irritating and John hates himself for finding Sherlock’s behaviour so. He almost died and he’d promised Sherlock he wouldn’t, promised him that nothing would happen.

 

He should have stayed.

 

“Just go back to sleep, Sherlock,” John mutters. Sherlock opens his mouth to argue. “Please.”

 

* * *

 

“You ought to see a therapist.”

 

Mycroft’s presence in their flat grates on John’s nerves. It’s a bit primal, the Alpha part of John annoyed at the small space that he has to share with another Alpha unrelated to him by blood. Mostly, though, it’s just Mycroft. It’s a weekday so the neither of the children are with Mycroft, giving John the freedom to swear all he wants.

 

Mycroft, however, did bring a cat. But as cats don’t have a full grasp of the human language, John can still swear all he wants.

 

Sometime while John was in the army, the twins brought home a stray kitten they’d found hanging outside the school building. They named it Bill Gates, call it Gates for short. John has no idea why Cedric thinks that looking after a cat will make him feel better. If anything, it’s just one more mouth to feed. But Mycroft hardly ever refuses any of his children’s requests and so the cat is here, sitting on the mantelpiece beside the skull and looking like a decoration itself. Plus, Mycroft likes cats, or any kind of animal that has the independence and attitude of a teenager.

 

“That’s the second time you hit my brother,” Mycroft says. It’s light-hearted and threatening at the same time. John grimaces. He didn’t hit Sherlock on purpose! Still, he doesn’t argue because he did hurt him and he does need help. Sherlock’s trying but it isn’t enough and John doesn’t want to be a burden to him. He has cases to solve and, John thinks bitterly, John can’t follow him around with this limp holding him back.

 

“I’ll find my own therapist, thank you,” he says tersely. He doesn’t trust anyone who works for Mycroft. He’s known Mycroft most of his life but the man is too invasive and John doesn’t need him to have a file on all of John’s PTSD symptoms. It’s bad enough that he lives with Sherlock who thinks he can overcome it in one day. “If you tried, John. If you really set your mind to it,” Sherlock will argue, and if John retreats to his room a lot these days, can you really blame him?

 

Mycroft hums contemplatively. John feels his eyes boring holes in the back of his head as he moves to the kitchen. “Don’t offer him tea, you’re just encouraging him to stay longer,” Sherlock yells every time Mycroft visits. And while John would very much like to pour hot tea all in Mycroft’s lap, he’s the civilised one in the relationship.

 

His hand is shaking when he hands Mycroft his cup. It does that now.

 

Mycroft, of course, notices. Mycroft doesn’t say ‘psychosomatic hand tremor’ even though John can read it plainly on his face. Mycroft is a dick, but what’s new?

 

He wishes Sherlock were here because then, he wouldn’t have to deal with Mycroft. But Sherlock’s in Dartmoor with Greg. He doesn’t know the details of the case because Sherlock won’t tell him. He knows John misses chasing after criminals with him, but John wishes Sherlock would at least tell him something work-related. He spends most of his time cooped up in the flat with no company save for the occasional visit from Mrs Hudson. Sometimes the twins visit as well, still dressed in their school uniforms as they chatter about their day. John hates those times. He likes the twins well enough, but the sight of them makes John regret about taking that tour.

 

If he hadn’t, if he’d just quit, then maybe Sherlock would be pregnant right now and they’d be starting their own family. And maybe Ewan wouldn’t be dead and maybe Bill wouldn’t be strapped in a wheelchair, paralyzed from the waist down, and god, maybe half of his friends died because John came back.

 

It’s a ridiculous thought, completely illogical. John schools his features, but it’s too late. Mycroft sighs waspishly. “If you don’t want any of my offers, then find a therapist as soon as possible,” he says. He glances down at his watch. “I’m going to pick up my children. Do take care of the cat, John.”

 

And with that, he leaves, leaving John alone with Gates. The cat meows inquisitively before leaping off the mantelpiece and onto Sherlock’s chair. It has green eyes. Like the Afghan child, John thinks, stomach sinking. He doesn’t know if she and her siblings had survived. If the soldiers didn’t then surely, they had no chance.

 

It’s not a thought he likes to dwell on.

 

The answering machine blinks and John lets the messages play, keeping careful watch of Gates from where he’s seated. Three from Harry, one from Sherlock’s mother, five from clients, one from Mike, two from Sarah, and the last from Bill. John sucks in a deep breath as it plays.

 

“ _Hey John, if you’re not busy, maybe we can have a pint together for old time’s sake? I’d love to hear from you…I..uh…visited Ewan’s gravestone. Feels weird. Maybe we can go together since we missed the funeral? Anyway, call back.”_

He plays that message again. And then he deletes everything.

 

* * *

 

He misses the army. He regrets it.

 

He isn’t sure about anything anymore nowadays.

 

It’s cruel and John hates himself for it but he doesn’t return Bill’s calls. It worries him.

 

* * *

 

It’s raining on the rare day that John steps out of the flat. It turns the world grey and blotted through the window of Angelo’s, the monochromatic tone being broken every now and then by a cheerfully coloured umbrella or raincoat. In front of him sits an untouched plate of pasta. “John,” Sherlock says and John looks up to find Sherlock staring at him intently. “Eat.”

 

The command brings a sour taste in John’s mouth. He looks at the food then at Sherlock. “I’m not hungry,” he says, doing his best to sound convincing.

 

“You didn’t eat breakfast.”

 

“Neither did you.”

 

“I’m used to it and it’s beneficial to The Work. Digestion slows down my thought process.”

 

“Bullshit.”

 

Sherlock glares at him. This is supposed to be a date. Sherlock doesn’t even like going on dates and the fact that he’s made the effort should shame John. But he’s itching for a fight and Sherlock’s the only one available to take the brunt of it.

 

“Sarah’s offering me a job,” John says, trying to calm himself. It doesn’t work. Sherlock’s glare intensifies and John feels that he may have done it on purpose. It’s no secret that Sherlock dislikes Sarah, purely for the reason John slept with her when they were younger. It’s immature but it never fails to make the Alpha side of him fiercely smug. “It’s a small clinic.”

 

“It will be boring,” Sherlock bites. “You’ll hate it.”

 

“Haven’t tried it have, I?”

 

“Oh really?” Sherlock scoffs. “From army doctor to a general practitioner. What will you be doing John? Prescribing medications to skin rashes, treating the colds of six-year-olds who’ll dribble snot at you. You’ll just be sitting behind your desk all day, waiting for something spectacular and there won’t be anything, John, you know that. Why would you stoop so low as to act like one of the idiotic members of society? For once in your life, try to stop acting so mundane.”

 

John grits his teeth. He can see Angelo in his peripheral vision, looking at them worriedly. It’s obvious that they’re fighting. Sherlock was practically shouting and everyone in the restaurant is doing their best to look away from them. “What do you suggest then?” he asks, keeping his voice level.

 

“Go on cases with me.”

 

“Follow you around like a lapdog? I don’t think so, Sherlock. Besides,” John thumps the cane on the floor, “I have a limp, remember? No running around for me anymore.”

 

“It’s psychosomatic!”

 

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt!”

 

“If you just controlled your mind then it wouldn’t!”

 

“Normal people can’t do that,” John hisses. “It’s not my fault you’re such a…such a…” He falters, stares at Sherlock unsurely.

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. “Say it then.”

 

“Such a freak,” John snaps, his anger rushing back at the blasé tone of Sherlock’s voice.

 

The silence that follows drags. John can feel guilt and anger warring inside him, but he can’t get a full grasp of what Sherlock is feeling. His face is blank, impassive, and just when John’s about to say something to break the tension, he stands up and leaves, calm and composed as ever.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t go back to the flat immediately. He walks for a while, not caring how much his leg will hurt in the morning. There are sympathetic glances thrown his way, but John ignores all of them, even the girl who kindly asks him if he needs a cab.

 

His anger slowly dissipates, leaving him hollow. He’s hurting Sherlock, hurting both of them, and all because he can’t get rid of all this guilt. Guilt for not following Sherlock, guilt for Bill, guilt for being a shit brother to Harry, guilt for Ewan, guilt for hurting Sherlock again and again and again. And anger, so much of it. He’s useless now, can’t even write long sentences without his hand shaking so badly that anything he writes becomes indecipherable. He might not even be able to shoot a gun. He used to be brilliant at that. He was a captain for godssake!

 

_Stop living in the past, John! Think about Sherlock._

Freak. He called him a freak, the same misnomer that idiot Anderson and Sally use to torment him Sherlock doesn’t care about them, but he does listen to John. And sure, he’s called Sherlock a lot of things, namely git and twat and bastard, but never that. To stoop as low as Anderson sickens him.

 

The flat is quiet when he returns but Sherlock isn’t locked up in their bedroom like he’d expected. Gates is draped over the back of the sofa. He lifts his head to acknowledge John before going back to sleep. There are scratches on the bottom of the door; he’ll have to talk to Cedric about that.

 

Finally. John finds Sherlock in the kitchen, bent over a microscope and still dressed in his suit. It’s almost normal if not for the tense way Sherlock’s holding himself, trying too hard to look aloof.

 

“What I said,” John starts, feeling a little awkward standing there. He shifts his weight and leans against the threshold, telling himself to hold his ground. “What I said a while ago, I take it back.”

 

“You can’t take back words, John,” Sherlock sneers.

 

“No, you can’t. But I wish I could.” Sherlock looks at him, face still void of emotion. “I’m not being a very good mate to you, am I? You’re actually trying to help and I keep pushing you away and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You have PTSD,” Sherlock says, his tone clinical. “It’s—”

 

“Not an excuse to treat you like shit.” He moves forward then hesitates once he’s close enough to pull Sherlock to him. Sherlock’s looking up for once but it makes him no less intimidating. He’s studying John, eyes moving over his face the same way they do when looking at a crime scene. It might be too soon, John thinks. He ought to step back, give Sherlock some space.

 

But no. Sherlock’s wrapped his arms around John’s waist, face pressed against John’s chest. Whatever he found in John’s face must have been a satisfactory answer. It’s a childish gesture, a sharp reminder that Sherlock’s still young. Maybe too young for them to continue with their initial plan. He cards his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and leans down to kiss the top of his head. There’s a small bump there, from where a thief had managed to hit Sherlock’s head with a steel pipe. John wasn’t there. Stupid leg, he thinks with that protective-possessive rage he feels whenever someone threatens his mate. Stupid PTSD.

 

“Your brother’s right.” The arms around his waist tighten momentarily, a sign of Sherlock’s disagreement. “I need a therapist. I should have found one earlier. I need to have someone to talk to about this and it can’t be you, Sherlock.”

 

“I’d do a better job,” Sherlock argues.

 

“Maybe, but I don’t want to stress you because of my problems.”

 

“I don’t stress,” Sherlock hisses, glaring at John accusingly.

 

He cups his face, rubs his thumbs over the ridge of Sherlock’s cheekbones in what he hopes is a soothing manner. “I can’t promise you that I’ll be back in normal in no time. I’m going to keep having flashbacks and nightmares and I’ll be snappish and rude but I promise that I’ll try and get better every day. For you and for myself as well.”

 

He kisses him carefully, lets Sherlock set the pace. But neither of them are willing to take control so the kiss doesn’t progress to more than a brush of their mouths against each other. It’s enough for now.

 

“And after?” Sherlock looks at him meaningfully. “Once you’re fully recovered?”

 

John smiles a little at that. God, he’d love to, but now, it truly doesn’t seem like a good idea. But they’re not the worst candidates for parenthood, so maybe there’s a slim chance that they’ll be able to do it right. “Then we’ll try and see,” John says.

 

* * *

 

 

“Feeling better, Johnny?”

 

John laughs at that. “Yeah. A lot, actually.”

 

“Not limping anymore? No more flashbacks?”

 

“Only sometimes,” John admits in a more sombre tone. He isn’t sure how Bill’s taking the whole wheelchair thing. The bullet shattered his pelvis, confining him to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. John’s doing his best not to draw attention to it, but it’s becoming increasingly more difficult as the conversation progresses to their recovery.

 

Fortunately for him, Bill never was the type to wallow in self-pity. He takes one look at John’s face and snorts derisively. “Oi! None of that, mate.” He thumps John on the shoulder, hard enough that John stumbles forward. “See? I can still do that.”

 

“Dick.”

 

It’s inappropriate behaviour in a graveyard but as far as John can see, he and Bill are the only ones here. The air is warm and muggy and John has to focus on not falling asleep. Graveyards make him uncomfortable. He’s been to too many funerals. His father’s, his mother’s, a few soldiers, a classmate in uni who overdosed on heroin. He’s somewhat thankful that he wasn’t present in Ewan’s funeral. Ewan wouldn’t have wanted him to be there anyway.

“He was tolerable,” was what Sherlock had said when John explained to him where he and Bill were going. “He wasn’t as annoying compared to your other companions.”

 

“Let’s get Mike to treat us this Friday,” Bill calls after him. John rolls his eyes at that while Bill’s girlfriend offers him a small smile. He watches the two of them go before he flags down a cab.

 

The cab driver, who looks about fifty and has the kind of well-trimmed beard that takes dedication, glances at his reflection in the rear view mirror, and goes, “Aren’t you that one with the blog? You that detective bloke?”

 

“My mate,” John corrects, beaming with pride when the man compliments both of them.

 

The blog is fairly new. Ella, his therapist, advised it and while it seemed ridiculous at first, because John’s no writer, finding a subject was easy. Sherlock hates it. “Stop romanticising me, John! I’m not a character in a bad fiction,” is the usual complaint. And while John wouldn’t have any problems taking it down if he knew that it really bothered Sherlock, it’s quite obvious that Sherlock likes the attention.

 

It’s a burglary this time, so John isn’t surprised to find the twins hanging by the yellow police tape, still dressed in their school uniforms. One of Mycroft’s assistants is watching over them, seemingly bored out of her mind. John can see the outline of the gun strapped to her hip, barely visible underneath her jumper. Gates, the cat, is in her arms, bright green eyes tracking John’s movements. “You two aren’t going home yet?” John asks.

 

“We got sent to the headmaster’s office for dismantling the projector during the school assembly so we’re waiting for Dad to explain our punishment,” Bea informs him without looking up from her phone. A tinny mechanical voice comes from it when her character dies, and under her breath, Bea swears, causing their guardian to glance her way. Cedric shrugs when John gives him a mock-glare. “It was _boring_ ,” he defends.

 

“Father’s in New York,” Cedric adds. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose in a contemplative manner. “He hasn’t been in a good mood lately.”

 

“Absolutely terrible.”

 

“If he were here—”

 

“We would be in lockdown,” Bea finishes for him. The two of them look up from their respective phones to exchange mischievous grins. John looks at the assistant who just gestures for him to move on. _Go on, I can handle them_. Better her than him, John thinks as one of the constables lets him through.

 

Sherlock’s already gotten to the part where he’s questioning everyone in the room’s ability to think so John stands at the side and waits for him to finish venting. Anderson giving him the evil eye but he won’t do anything, not when John’s here. Not when John made it clear that he won’t stand for anyone insulting his mate, no matter how rude his mate might be. He’s biased, can’t help being biased. Everyone in a relationship is. “Finished?” John asks once Sherlock’s finally stopped talking. He scowls at him, but moves to Greg to tell him his findings.

 

“Rude,” Sherlock mutters afterwards. Still, he walks close to John, fingers brushing against John’s hand until John gets impatient and takes it.

 

“ _You_ were being rude,” John points out.

 

“As long as their minds are not making the effort to work to their full capacity then I will always find an excuse to be as discourteous as possible,” Sherlock replies coolly. John raises an eyebrow at him.

 

“The results are negative.”

 

John shrugs, trying to act nonchalant even though the Alpha part of him is displeased at the failure. “I guessed as much.” He rubs his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand, tightening his grip when Sherlock tries to pull away. “We’ll try again…And if it doesn’t happen, so what? You have a niece and a nephew anyway.”

 

“They’re Mycroft’s children,” Sherlock mutters, disdainful. But the farther they go, the more Sherlock’s bad mood disappears, the exhilaration of solving a case catching up to him. They’ll go home, watch telly while Sherlock shouts at it. Maybe they’ll have sex, maybe not. Either way, John feels so incredibly fond of him that he can’t help it anymore. He slides an arm around Sherlock’s waist, waiting for the rebuke. But it doesn’t come and while Sherlock doesn’t full-out acknowledge it, John can feel that’s he’s relaxed and, for the moment, satisfied.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue takes place two years later. A few events from the Great Game are mixed there, so yes, Moriarty is entering this story.


	18. Epilogue: Neutrino

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is written in Cedric's perspective.

The biggest mistake you can make with cats is that the more you coddle them, the more they do their best to stay away from you. Cedric knows that. Everyone who’s owned a cat at some point in their lives is aware that cats are sociopathic creatures. And yet he, and a large number of cat owners, still make the same mistake over and over again.

“It’s seven pm, our parents our out having dinner, and you want to go outside and look for your cat?” his sister asks. “The same cat who returns after a week at Uncle’s place to suck up to you, only to leave again?”

Well, when she puts it that way, yes, it sounds ridiculous. But the fact that Sherlock can happily, unwaveringly use Gates as a test subject for another one of his experiments keeps Cedric from sitting still. “Yes,” he says, and hears Bea groan in exasperation. He looks over his shoulder to glare at her, then looks away just as quickly. “Can you stop being gross?” he whines, because crap, he’s her twin and they live with each other but does she have to do that?

“I think I need a bra or something,” Bea says and Cedric nearly chokes on his own spit. She removes her hands from her chest, does her best to flatten the wrinkles in her shirt. It’s her dad’s, the faded The Clash shirt she’d found and stolen and it’s big enough to drown out the slight curves of her body. She’s tall for her age, and skinny like her brother, so there isn’t much there yet, but maybe she needs it? It’s difficult being a girl in a household full of males, all of whom either choke on their own spit or pointedly look away when she brings up anything related to female body parts. “What do you think?”

“Gross,” Cedric grouses. They look at each other for a second. And then she lunges for him, grabs his head, and keeps it under her arm until his annoyance overrides his morality. He grabs her wrist to pull himself away and Bea squeaks at the sudden strength of his grip. 

“Sorry.”

“You’re becoming less of a baby Alpha each day,” she says, shaking her hand to try and relieve the pain. Cedric stares at it, shamefaced. He’s getting stronger, alright, and not just that. His sense of smell becoming more sensitive, and it’s more frightening than exciting. Father says it’s normal, that puberty (ugh) isn’t something he should be ashamed of. It just makes him feel weird, his body looking like it was stretched overnight, leaving him with too long limbs and the annoying responsibility to correct people’s assumptions that he plays sports. No, he has no interest in becoming a rugby player or football player so sorry, Dad, but he’s more than a bit geeky, just turn to Bea if you’re disappointed about the whole no-sports thing since she plays football like a pro.

Most of his shirts don’t fit right anymore.

And then there are girls and, okay, some boys. Their school is an Alpha/Beta school but there’s an Omega/Beta school close by and sometimes they…god, it’s embarrassing, but sometimes, when he passes by, they giggle and whisper conspiratorially. Luke says it’s supposed to make him feel smug that he’s more attractive than average. John doesn’t say it but the implication is there. He doesn’t understand why it makes him feel more like he’s being put on display.

Bea’s facing the mirror again and this time, she’s sliding her hands under her shirt and Cedric averts his eyes and makes the most disgusted noise he can create. “Fine, go visit Uncle,” she huffs, removing them at once. “I’ll distract Ingrid for you.” 

“You really need to stop going in my room without knocking, you know,” she adds, pushing him out, and Cedric mutters assent. “Be back before our parents get here. Dad will be pissed if he finds out.”

There are surveillance cameras outside but as there really is no way to hide anything from Father, Cedric doesn’t bother finding a way around them. He leaves his phone at home, wraps up in his warmest clothes, then ventures outside with his skateboard tucked under his arm.

Mrs Hudson is the one to open the door and Cedric automatically puts on his ‘I’m a good kid’ smile. He doesn’t really need to make the effort. There will never be a day when Mrs Hudson won’t acknowledge him the way an adult does an amusing six-year-old child. And as annoying and as degrading as it is, it usually gets him free cake. Usually.

She looks fatigued and Cedric’s ears immediately pick up the coarse sound of a violin being played far too violently. “Do try not to make him even angrier, dear,” she warns him. “I can’t watch my favourite soap with all that noise!”

“Yeah, will do Mrs Hudson.”

The air is tense when he opens the door of the flat and Cedric immediately recoils at the anger practically radiating from his uncle. He’s standing in front of the window, the violin now dangling from one hand, the bow at his feet. Cedric catches sight of Gates sitting on the arm of John’s chair with his ears flattened in a clear sign of displeasure. Cedric sets the skateboard down and lets the cat settle in his arms, nuzzling his face into the fur on his neck until Gates begins to squirm.

“So you and John fought?” he asks. It’s dangerous territory, but luckily, Sherlock merely snorts. 

“He’s with Sarah,” he mutters, pushing past Cedric. For some reason, Cedric breathes deeply, nose itching at the strange but somewhat undetectable newness to his uncle’s scent. He opens his mouth to ask if there’s anything wrong with him, but when he turns around, he finds Sherlock curled in on the sofa, facing the back of it. 

He got thinner again. Cedric frowns at the way his shoulder blades stand out from underneath his bathrobe, sharp enough to cause concern. “Did you eat?”

No response. Cedric moves to the kitchen, sees the dirty plates in the sink, and then moves back to the living room. He should get home, he thinks, but there’s something that’s making him stay, something that’s making him strangely anxious. He looks at Sherlock who hasn’t moved a muscle, then moves to the windows. Something, something weird is going to happen. He can feel it in his gut. It isn’t a good feeling.

“John will come back,” he says, hoping to get a response from Sherlock. No such luck. Cedric sighs and sets Gates down. He doesn’t really want to leave his uncle here to rampage the flat while John is off god-knows-where. It isn’t his responsibility, really, but he’s an Alpha. His uncle, as acerbic and austere as he is, is an Omega, and the only thing going through Cedric’s mind right now is protect, protect, protect, in spite of the fact that he’s only thirteen and Sherlock is more than capable of protecting himself.

Sherlock suddenly stirs. He sits up abruptly and looks at the window in confusion. And before Cedric can even ask, a loud bang and a flash of red and orange throws him backwards.

* * *

Don’t ever mistake action movies for reality. Being in close proximity to an explosion really fucking hurts.

* * *

The neat row of stiches on his forehead stands out against the pallor of his skin. Cedric lets his hair fall and does his best to arrange it in a way that will make the injury invisible. No such luck. His hair isn’t long enough for that, and Cedric mentally curses his father for forcing him to get a haircut.

People will talk about it in the morning. Kids deal with injuries differently than adults.

“You’ll live,” Sherlock says. He leans in to inspect his work, and Cedric can’t help but take a lungful of his scent. There’s a difference in it, but it’s so subtle that it’s like grasping at air. He blinks then rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, head suddenly aching at the lack of glasses. He’ll need new ones, and damn, he just got those new frames last week.

The windows are broken, there’s a severe crack running down the wall, and everything is covered in a fine layer of dust and plaster, not excluding himself or Sherlock. He closes his eyes and concentrates on his other senses. There’s still a faint ringing in his ears, but he can pick up the sound of a police siren in the distance. Dad’s coming, he thinks, stomach sinking. He’ll get in trouble. He’ll get Bea in trouble as well, and all for Gates.

Come to think of it, coming here really wasn’t worth the effort.

The cat is sitting on top of the bookshelf, meowing confusedly every now and then and hissing every time Cedric tries to coax him down. He gives up after Gates’ third attempt to scratch off his nose and settles for sitting in John’s chair to wait for his dad. 

“Your senses are very sensitive,” Sherlock observes. He’s seated opposite him, hands pressed together in mock-prayer. Parts of his hair is covered with plaster, giving it a greyish tinge. Oddly, it makes him look younger than his years.

“Puberty,” Cedric says, recoiling from the word. 

“Indeed.” With a sneer, Sherlock adds, “You look more like Mycroft each day. It’s perturbing.”

It isn’t said nicely but Cedric’s learned early on not get riled up with his uncle’s insults. Sherlock’s always rude. He’s rude to John as well so Cedric sees no reason for him to act nicer to Cedric just because they’re related.

“You smell weird, you know?” Cedric rubs the side of his nose, an excuse to break eye contact. There’s a scratch on his finger and Cedric tries to peel off the excess of skin. “Something’s different. I just can’t point it out.”

“If you can’t point it out then don’t bother to mention it in the first place.”

Dick. But Cedric isn’t his sister, who can unhesitatingly call Sherlock a bitch or a wanker. He doesn’t swear a lot either so he settles for the childish, “You’re mean.” 

“And you are a very peculiar Alpha.”

Eight minutes later, there’s a knock on the door. Neither of them make a move to get up so the door is opened from the other side. A few officers walk in, Greg included, and Cedric instinctively shoves his hands in his pockets and tries to make himself as small as possible. But when you’re five-foot-seven and still growing, this isn’t easily achievable. Greg locks eyes with him, takes one look at the stitches, then says, “And what are you doing here?”

He feels it again, that feeling of being horribly exposed as several eyes slide to his direction. Gates answers for him, choosing to leap off the bookshelf and onto Sherlock’s lap. His uncle looks ready to throw him off, but Gates bites when surprised and this stops him from doing so. They glare at each other, somehow being able to mirror each other’s expression. It’s the eyes, Cedric thinks. That or the austere auras. 

His dad sighs, gives him a ‘we’ll talk about this later’ look before turning to Sherlock. “Gas leak across the street,” he explains. His eyes flick to Cedric once more, assessing for more injuries, before moving back to Sherlock. Cedric tries to shoot him a warning look but Greg continues on, “Where’s John?”

It gets them out of the flat in less than three minutes, and once it’s settled that everyone’s safe, Cedric slides in the passenger’s seat of the police car. “You understand why your father and I don’t like you going out after dark, don’t you?” Greg asks as the car starts. Cedric merely shrugs and does his best to appear uninterested. Gates licks his wrist and Cedric scratches behind his ears distractedly. 

“Your uncle is an internet-famous detective with a lot of enemies,” Greg says in a patronizing tone that grates on Cedric’s nerves. “I work for Scotland Yard and not everyone who goes to jail stays there. As for Mycroft, I don’t even know what he does for a living but there’s a reason why he has CCTV’s watching us. Yes, it’s annoying and restricting but it will keep you and your sister safe.”

“We have Anthea,” he argues.

“Who isn’t your bodyguard. She’s your father’s assistant. And the CCTV has blind spots.” He reaches over and swipes his thumb on Cedric’s nape. The contact makes him tense, shoulders hunching defensively. Cedric ignores the hurt look on Greg’s face.

“Just try and listen to us for once,” Greg mutters, defeated. The ride back is tense and when he gets back home to meet Father’s disapproving glare, he hates his biology more than ever.

* * *

People don’t think much of Alphas going through puberty. They’re still seen as the higher gender. People don’t understand that it’s like being the Incredible Hulk. Intense anger at the smallest things, unexpected strength, the strong urge to protect upon seeing a family member or a close friend. Looking at a smaller Alpha and thinking _I can kill you, let’s fight, I can snap your neck with my bare hands._

He’s supposed to be the nice one. It’s annoying to have this stage damper his image.

* * *

He asks Molly Hooper.

The morgue is cold as always and Cedric is doing his best not to look at the emaciated body of a sixteen-year-old murder victim. Bea’s looking and has even taken out a notebook to doodle the corpse in the margin of a page. Sherlock would be proud, but Sherlock is currently doing an experiment in the flat, leaving Greg to handle to initial stage of the case. He scolds Bea when she prods the foot with the end of her pen.

It’s not weird. It’s not the first time he’s seen a body on a cold slab before. Mycroft told Greg years before to expose them to their work as early as possible. Which was really him telling their dad to let him hang around Sherlock and become immune to the effects of seeing dead bodies and severed limbs. They’re Holmeses, they can’t be weak, can’t afford to be, and while Greg draws the line when it comes to crime scenes, neither of them can become squeamish around the dead anymore.

She’s a Beta but she has a good knowledge in Biology. Over the bland, vanilla scent natural to Betas, she smells of formaldehyde, the main reason why she’s having trouble getting dates. But there’s something new there as well, something that smells like expensive cologne and red wine and…Italian leather? Something posh, anyway. An Alpha? Or a Beta. Well, whoever it is, he or she sure doesn’t seem to mind the scent of the morgue which tends to cling to Molly.

He had a crush on her once. He was ten, and she was new, and Molly isn’t bad-looking and she’s smart so…yeah, not bad for a whole short-lived-crush-on-an-older-acquaintance. 

“Well, pregnancy can do that,” she tells him and Cedric thinks ‘oh, of course’. He blinks then does his best to remove the somewhat shocked expression on his face when he catches her eyeing him curiously. “Why’d you ask?”

“It’s just…I’m having trouble with a few scents. They keep getting mixed up,” he lies. It happens to other Alphas but he has yet to experience that. 

“You should get that checked,” she tells him and Cedric hums a reply, immediately blocking out the rest of her words.

* * *

The next day, Theresa Conners tries to kiss him.

She’s a Beta. She’s good in all the subjects Cedric isn’t exemplary in and her most distinctive feature is her eyes. She has a rare case of heterochromia that leaves on eye grass green, and the other chestnut brown. Boys think she’s fit in the way only thirteen-year-olds can. Blond hair, developing breasts made more prominent by padded bras, and a bright smile slightly marred by braces. She smells of ivory soap and her rose petal perfume and when she leans in, the soft pads of her bra presses against his chest and—

Cedric leaps back to that her lips only manage to brush against the corner of his mouth. And then he runs off without looking back.

Bea laughs at him when he tells her. They’re in Electronic Production 2 and Petey, their instructor, is magnanimous enough to relate noise with active participation. “It’s the cut,” she explains patiently. “Girls go for that sort of thing. They like taking care of people.

“Besides, you’re pretty much the only one who’s gotten a head start on the whole growth spurt thing among the boys so you’ve got one up on them based on looks.” She adjust his glasses for him then makes a face. “Even though you’re pretty ugly.”

“It’s disgusting,” Cedric mutters under his breath, ignoring the insult. Height is an advantage when you’re an Alpha, but really, it’s on how sensitive you are to scents. He gets nosebleeds when he smells too much rust or perfume or sweat, and the more blood there is dripping down his chin, the bigger the smile of the school nurse. Like he ought to be thankful that he loses blood every time he gets a whiff of Maria Patterson’s cologne.

It happens again and Petey doesn’t even pause from his lecture when he walks out the door without preamble. He wipes his nose with the sleeve of his jumper, leaving a streak of brown-red on the material. The nurse will give him a low-grade suppressing patch, will let him lie in bed for a while until the headache abates.

Not today.

Something known about the Holmes-Lestrade twins is that they’re incredibly stubborn. They get it from Greg, don’t let him think otherwise.

Cedric thinks about Sherlock, looks at the front door, then leaves the school without looking back.

* * *

Of course it’s strange to see a thirteen-year-old purchasing a pregnancy test. The girl at the counter does a double take when she looks up from the box. “It’s for my older sister,” he says and does his best impression of an embarrassed, burdened younger brother. It may not have worked as well as he hoped. He’s not Sherlock.

“I’m not pregnant!” Sherlock snaps when Cedric wordlessly hands it to him. He narrows his eyes. “And you should be in school.” Like, yeah, let the man who skived off every chance he got tell that to him.

He takes the test anyway and Cedric waits and watches John’s DVD of Firefly for a while. A moment later, the bathroom door opens with a bang, confirming Cedric’s suspicions.

* * *

There is a case, a big case. He hears snippets of it when he’s at Scotland Yard with his sister, catches his parents talking about it in hushed voices. Moriarty or something like that, he isn’t sure.

The case comes first. It always does. Sherlock threatens to flay him alive if he tells. So Cedric doesn’t and feels the weight of it in his mind.

It isn’t a secret that he has to keep forever (unless, of course, Sherlock decides to abort it, which is highly unlikely as his instincts will keep him from doing so). He doesn’t know much about babies as he tends to block that part of Sex Ed lectures, but he has a good enough knowledge in scents changing. A long-term illness, suppressants, hormone inducers, pregnancy. Chemicals changing, merging in a body can affect scent and while Cedric may be able to detect the mild suppressant Sherlock’s using to remove any trace of his condition, it won’t be long until others catch up with him.

He doesn’t tell Bea even though he should. Even though he _shouldn’t_. 

They’re twins, and as stupid and cliché as it may sound, they don’t keep secrets from each other. They listen to the same music, have the same tastes in food, share a great dislike for television sitcoms (no offense, Luke). Having a twin is like watching a part of you walk beside you, and to not share, to not tell, makes him greatly anxious.

The cut doesn’t heal well. It will scar, will eventually flatten and turn a shade whiter than his skin, and Bea groans, dismayed, upon finding out the inevitable. “It looks so cool!” she complains. Her fingers move, expertly weaving strands of his hair until she’s able to form an intricate braid. She shows it to him, tugs enough so that he can see the end of it which means that she’s pulling hard enough that it feels like she’s about to rip off the hair from his scalp. I’m not a doll, he wants to say, but whatever, no one from school can see that he’s letting her do this to him.

His toenails are painted electric blue. He’ll have to remind her to remove them before he goes to sleep. The last time, he forgot, and he had to skip Phys Ed to avoid the boys jeering at him.

Both of his parents are home which is a rare enough sight that Cedric didn’t know what to do so he found himself acting as a guinea pig for his sister. Usually, when Father isn’t in some part of Europe doing god-knows-what and the workload in Scotland Yard is light enough that their dad can do it at home, they go out and have dinner. Tonight isn’t one of those nights. He can hear them watching telly, Greg laughing every now and then while Mycroft occasionally murmurs a remark. It’s nine o’clock meaning that they’re watching Luke’s show. Cedric hums along to the theme song, smiling a bit when Bea subconsciously mimics him.

His dad walks in the sitting room, hair messy at the back of his head, and Cedric looks away, ears reddening at what he can read on him. Because, god, nobody wants to think about their parents snogging or having sex, okay? Greg pauses to raise an eyebrow at Cedric’s toenails. “Blue isn’t his colour. Go with green,” he jokes and Bea laughs at that, making Cedric tuck his feet in lest she follow his advice.

“You guys don’t want to watch that?” he asks once he’s returned from the kitchen. “Your godfather’s been challenged to wrestle with a boxing champion.”

Bea’s eyes widen with disbelief. “Father’s watching that?”

“Criticising it as always,” Greg corrects. Bea looks at him, waiting, and Cedric shakes his head in response. She tells him to stay put then follows Greg out, leaving him alone in the sofa. 

He sleeps for a while, drifting in and out of consciousness, occasionally hearing Bea laughing loudly and a blare of noise from the telly. A hand falls on his forehead, followed by the warm comfort of an afghan being placed over him. 

When he wakes, it’s three hours later and it’s the sound of Greg yelling at someone on the phone. “I’ll be right there,” he says, ending the call by slamming the receiver down. Cedric lets his eyes adjust to the darkness. 

“He’ll be fine, Mycroft. They both will be.” He touches Father’s elbow gently and the intimacy of it shocks him because Father is being comforted. That doesn’t happen, it never does. But it only lasts a second and Father straightens then tells him that he’ll follow, he’ll just have to deal with a few things.

“Uncle’s in trouble?” Cedric asks, immediately making a face at how loud his voice sounds in the nearly empty room. There’s no use pretending that he’s asleep. Bea’s probably already in her room, sent there by Father and probably cursing that she’s missing in on this. He sits up, and Mycroft looks at him sharply, eyes quickly moving over his face, trying to detect a difference, a secret. Cedric gives in.

“John and Sherlock are trapped under a collapsed building.” Mycroft touches his head, thumb passing over the cut on his forehead. _What do you know?_ It makes his eyes slide shut. “There was a bomb.”

He opens his eyes and they look at each other. Cedric swallows then stares down at his hands. They’re shaking slightly and he clenches them. He feels fear and anxiety and a bit of triumph that he got this far in keeping something from his father. 

“Uncle’s pregnant,” Cedric blurts out. There’s no use hiding it. The triumph fades when he hears Father’s sharp intake of breath, quickly replaced by guilt. “Few weeks now. He said not to tell.”

“I understand.” Father stands. He looks troubled, looks angered, and Cedric shrinks back. 

“They’ll be fine, won’t they?” he asks. It’s a stupid question, a childish question. Where this any other day, Mycroft would reprimand him and tell him that he has the power to answer his own questions. But Mycroft smiles at him reassuringly, startling Cedric.

“They will be,” he says and Cedric swallows hard. It doesn’t sound right at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The continuation of this is Red Dwarf which is all about Sherlock, the baby, and Moriarty. 
> 
> Holy shit it's done. Like, oh god, I'm about to ride the angst train. The two shorts stories and the third part are much darker than either TNK or Venn.


End file.
